^?^i^<ilhlfii*v'i\S 




liitiMfiif'Ti:.!" 






^v-/>. 






~.\ 









..*^ 



■ » 1 * 






.V ,P 













I'X 'y\^v^%'^ 



.0^ 






oO' 



.#^ s 



^iW 



1^^^ <P' ... /°^ *.r> mO^ ^^ 












^^^/>. 







'."%:* 



'<p ,^\ 



Ijini^sy o 



l\ 






,f^ .>^% 






o>' 



.00. 



^^ ^ , x '^ .0 ,, 



< 



,V "^ 






■^^iii/^^ 



0, ^> 






if> ,^\ 



- w: x^^. : 




















oS -n^ 















r-. 

'Z' "^ N -■ A 




^^^' f 









■\v^ 



.^^' -v 







^'■■:^'^^:,<^ 



■^-- -^0^:, 



BCXDKS BY SAM WALTER FOSS 



Back Country Poems 

With 12 Full-page Illustrations. Cloth. $1.50 

Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

Fully Illustrated. Cloth. Gilt Top. Boxed. $1.50 

Dreams in Homespun 

Cloth. Gilt Top. Boxed. $1.50 

Songs of War and Peace 

Cloth. Gilt Top. Boxed. ^5^1.50 

Songs of the Aberage Man 

Illustrated. Cloth. Gilt Top. Boxed. $1.50 



Lothfopt Lee & Shepard G)^ Boston 



WHIFFS 



WILD M EADOWS 



BY 

SAM WALTER FOSS 

AUTHOR OF "back COUNTRY POEMS " 



ILLUSTRATED 



BOSTON 
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 






The poems entitled "Sambo Washington's Vindication," 
"Gideon Gaskins's Deaths," "The Fate of Pious Dan," "The 
Vision That Recedes," "A Modern Malthusian," " The Song of 
the Brook," "Fate," "The Battle in the Mist," "The Voy- 
age," and "My Sabbaths" are used in this volume through 
the courtesy of the New York Sun. The poems entitled 
"The Songless Poet," "A Back-yard Philosopher," "The Big 
Four and the Little Man " are used by the kind permission 
of Tke Golden Rule. 



Copyright, 1895, ^y Lee and Shepard 



All rights reserved 



Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



-^ 



TYPOGRAPHY BY C. J. PETERS & SON, BOSTON. 



PRKSSWORK BY ROCKWELL & CHURCHILL. 



TO 

SAXTON AND MOLLIE 



Ah, there are many average men. 

And aU so good and bad, like you. 
And all so bad and good, like me; 
And all so false and all so trite. 
So full of joy and misery — 
Should not a poet noroj and then 
Make songs to glad tJiese average men f 

Look in the hearts of average men, — 

The tragedies of doom are there; 
And comedies of glad delight^ 

And hopeless wailings of despair, - - 
And hopes and sorrows infinite — 
Shall not a poet nozu and then 
Look in the hearts of average men f 

Look in the lives of average men — 

The baby lulled by cradle songs. 
The hopeful youth serenely brave. 

The toiler in the toiling throngs. 
The coffin at the open grave — 
May not a poet now and then 
Reveal these lives of average men ? 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Behind the Hill i 

The Pound-Keeper 6 

The Old Cow lo 

Sambo Washington's Vindication 13 

Justin Bloom and Gontoseed 15 

The Confessions of a Lunkhead 17 

Fixing the Old Thing Right 20 

He Worried About It 25 

Haytown's Boom 28 

Land on Your Feet 31 

Erastus Wren's Virtue 33 

The Drummer 36 

The Ideal Husband to His Wife 39 

The Silence of Jed Durkee 42 

Prudence True's Crazy Quilt 46 

The Deacon's Bear-Yarn 51 

Gideon Gaskins's Deaths 55 

Ben Burlap's Barn 58 

Deserted Farms 60 

The Deacon and the Circus 63 

Jed Johnson's Advice 66 

Durkee's Mill 68 

The Work-Seeker 70 

Jack Dawson's Pilgrimage 74 

vii 



viii Contents 

PAGE 

The Calf-Path 77 

The Fly-Away-Bird 8i 

Truth 84 

New Year's at Hard Fact Meadows ^y 

The Fate of Pious Dan 91 

A Mislaid Continent .- 94 

Fate's Frustrated Joke 97 

When We Worked Our Tax Out 100 

The Milkman's Team 102 

The Ox-Team 106 

The Prisoner 108 

The Hill Above the Town no 

The Home in the Valley 114 

Work for Small Men 116 

The Buster Ii8 

Deacon Pettigrew's Unfortunate Prayer 122 

Is Little Bob Tucked In? 126 

The Good Old Times 129 

The Vision That Recedes 131 

Uncle Jed's Journey . 134 

The Origin of Sin 136 

The Soul's Spring Cleaning 138 

The Young Musician 140 

Uncle Seth on Kings 143 

The Misrepresentation of Erastus Poog 147 

The Songless Poet 151 

The Perfect Man, But — 154 

Two Calves 159 

The Book-Agent 160 

The Hen-Fever of Jed Watson 162 

Heresy in Pokumville 167 

Wearing His Dad's 01' Clo'es 171 



Contents ix 

PAGE 

A Back-yard Philosopher 174 

The Fat Man 17^ 

The Song of the Optimist ig2 

The President's Baby j85 

The Song of the Tramp j83 

The Concord Fight igo 

The Man of Leisure's Creed 192 

A Mighty Ambition 194 

The Old Man's Boy 197 

The Rejuvenation of Rundown 200 

A Millionaire Pauper 205 

The Candidates at the Fair 209 

Bill, Tom, Ned, Dick, Pete, Jim, and Me .... 213 

Wen Father Bought a Bar'l er Flour 216 

When Cy Put on His Meetin' Clo'es 219 

The Poet's Sonnet 222 

A Disreputable Martyr 224 

Peter's Picture 228 

The Graded Street 230 

A Modern Malthusian 234 

The Song of the Brook 237 

Uncle Ted and Boston 241 

Tom and Bill 244 

Fate 249 

The Battle in the Mist 250 

The Voyage 251 

My Sabbaths 252 

The Coming American 253 

The Press 262 

Lines 265 

The Big Four and the Little Man 268 



<7 



WHIFFS FROM WILD MEADOWS 



BEHIND THE HILL 



My boy was young ; he could not know 
The way earth's wayward currents flow, 
And so, in early shallows bound, 
His mis-manned shallop ran aground. 
He grew ashamed of his disgrace, 
He could not look me in the face ; 
" For, mother, every man," said he, 
" Has scorn, and only scorn, for me. 
I must go forth with alien men. 
And grapple with the world again ; 
I cannot stay and face the truth 
Among the people of my youth. 
Where men are strange, and scenes are new. 
There may be work for me to do. 
And, when I have redeemed the past, 
I will come back to you at last." 
And so I watched while my boy Will 
Went down behind the hill. 



Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

He climbed the hill at early morn 
Beneath whose shadow he was born ; 
He stood upon its highest place, 
The sunrise shining on his face ; 
He stood there, but too far away 
For me to see his tears that day. 




My thoughts, my fears, I cannot tell 
When he waved back his sad farewell, 
And then passed on, and my boy Will 
Went down behind the hill. 



Went down the hill ; henceforth for me 
One picture in my memory 
Crowds every other from its place, — 
A boy with sunrise on his face. 



Behind the Hill 

His sunrise-lighted face I see, — 
The sunset of all joy to me ; 
For when he turned him from my sight 
The morning mixed itself with night, 
And darkness came when my boy Will 
Went down behind the hill. 

The world is wide, and he has gone 
Into its vastness, on and on. 
I know not what besets his path, 
What hours of gloom, what days of wrath, 
What terrors menace him afar. 
What nights of storm without a star, 
What mountains loom above his way, 
What oceans toss him night and day, 
What fever blasts from desert sands. 
What death-cold winds from frozen lands, 
What shafts of sleet or sun may blight 
My homeless wanderer in his flight; 
I only know the world is wide, 
And he can roam by land and tide. 
'Tis wide, ah, me! in every part, 
But narrower than his mother's heart, — 
A joyless heart since my boy Will 
Went down behind the hill. 

I know he bravely fights with fate, 
But, ah, the hour is growing late ! 



Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

I watch the hill by day and night, 

It dimly looms before my sight, 

And fast the twilight shadows fall, 

The night is glooming over all ; 

But in my boy a faith is given 

As saints of old had faith in heaven. 

I know that he will come again, 

His praise on all the lips of men ; 

He will come back to me at last 

With deeds that shall redeem the past ; 

Nor desert plain, nor mountain steep. 

Nor storm nor thunder on the deep, 

Nor tempest in the east or west, 

Shall hold him from his mother's breast. 

And, though the world grows blind and dumb, 

I feel, I know, that he will come ; 

And I am waiting for him still, 

And watch the summit of the hill. 

Sometimes I think I see him stand 

And wave a welcome with his hand ; 

But 'tis a cloud upon the rim 

Of sunset — and my eyes are dim — 

'Tis but a mist made by the tears 

That thicken with the growing years. 

I watch while there is light to see, 

And dream that he will come to me ; 

And though 'tis dark within, without, 

I will not shame him by a doubt ; 



Behind the Hill 

The all-enfolding night draws near, 
But he will come — I will not fear — 
But, ah, 'tis long since my boy Will 
Went down behind the hill I 



Whiffs fro7n Wild Meadows 



THE POUND-KEEPER 



In our district, years ago, 
Were boys the great world ought to knoWc 
Joe Bean could draw upon his slate 
Fine pictures that we all called great ; 
And after school he passed it round, 
And then our wonder was profound. 
"They'll beat," said Squire Erastus Brown, 
" Most any chrome in the town. 
He'll make an artist, sure as fate, 

Of whom, some day, we'll all be proud." 
But Joe moved to another State — 

And then got lost in the crowd. 

In the same district Israel Finn 
Could play upon the violin ; 
And when he fiddled, all us boys 
"Would gather round to hear the noise. 
Sam Craig, who'd been to Boston, and 
Heard the best fiddlers in the land, — 
He said straight out that he should call 
Young: Israel Finn the best of all. 
When he grew up and moved away 



The PoimJ-^Keeper >, 

His genius was by all allowed; 
We said, "The world will hear him play" — 
But he got lost in the crowd. 

In the same district Ezra Prime 
Was a great hand to make a rhyme. 
From him the poetry seemed to flow, 
Like spring brooks fed with melted snow; 
And Jed Drew, who had read a lots, 
And knew the hymns of Isaac Watts, 
Said he'd no doubt that Ezra Prime 
Would be the poet of his time. 
But Ezra left us, like the rest. 

We said, " His fame will echo loud 
From north to south, from east to west," 

But he got lost in the crowd. 

In the same district Abr'am Beach 

Most any time could make a speech ; 

And our old school-committee man. 

Who once had heard the " Godlike Dan," 

Said, "Webster made a splendid sound. 

And threw his voice for miles around ; 

'Twould fill a thousand acre lot — 

But Abr'am knocked him out for thought ! " 

So he couldn't stay in such a town. 

Where us poor fellows hoed and ploughed. 



Whiffs fro77i Wild Meadows 

He went to seek a world renown — 
But he got lost in the crowd. 

There was a man named Robert Burns, 
Who lived among the grass and ferns, 
Who did hard w^ork with his right arm, 
And raised good verses on his farm ; 
And while he lived and farmed it there, 
His poetry crop was pretty fair. 
Sometimes we move on faster, see ? 
By simply staying where we be. 
The crowd is large, and men are small, 

And heaped together, like a cloud, — 
And he is pretty middling tall 

Who is not lost in the crowd. 

There was a man whose name was Grant, 
Who grew, like an obscure plant, 
For forty years, and blossomed late. 
Then burst, a full-blown flower of fate. 
This backwood teamster drove his team 
Right through red War's blood-swollen stream. 
Right through the smoke and battle roar, 
And hitched it at the White House door. 
He stayed at home, and worked away 

Till the time called, and called hifji^ loud. 
Then buckled on his sword one day, 

And found himself in the crowd. 



The Found-Keeper 

But why take Grant and Burns ? take me, 

Born here, raised here, and here I be ; 

But still my fellow-townsmen found 

No better man to run the Pound. 

And I want you to note it down, 

I'm king of every cow in town, 

And all the heifers that you see. 

They stand in mortal awe of me. 

I stayed right here, and worked at home, 

And all the town of me is proud. 
I had no hankering to roam — 

And dicMt get lost in the crowd. 



THE 



OLD -^..-^^.CX.^. 




I USED to go a-milking when the shades of night 
were falling, 

And the sunset's benediction sanctified the even- 
ing air, 

When the crickets from the thickets in their piping 
strains were calling, 

And the twilight peace was brooding, softly brood- 
ing, everywhere. 

But the twilight peace I felt not, night's odorous 
balm I smelt not. 

And the black night gloomed about me with a mel- 
ancholy frown. 

When I strained each manual muscle in an agoniz- 
ing tussle, 

But the old cow wouldn't " give down," 

Ah! 
The old cow wouldn't " giv^ down ' '' 

lO 



The Old Cow ii 

O Brindle ! most lactiferous of all the herd herbiv- 
orous, 

Nearly always non-withholding, grandly generous 
wert thou. 

No cow grazes with such praises, for thy praises 
were vociferous. 

For thou wert our most beloved and our most be- 
lauded cow. 

But sometimes all unapplauded, unbeloved, unbe- 
lauded, 

Did our looks of admiration darken to a gloomy 
frown ; 

Yes, our looks were black and baleful when we 
went to get a pailful — 

And the old cow wouldn't "give down," 

Ah! 
The old cow wouldn't "give down." 

Milking since has been my mission, and my cow is 

young ambition, 
And I've milked her night and morning, milked 

her early, milked her late ; 
But my butter (sad to utter), my sweet butter of 

fruition. 
Does my most persistent churning often fail to 

concentrate. 
Though my milking seat's adjusted, still my cow 

cannot be trusted. 



12 Whiffs from Wild Meadoivs 

And the smile of fickle fortune often darkens to a 

frown, 
When I pull with tearful traction, but I get no satis- 
faction — 

For my old cow won't "give down," 

Ah! 
My old cow won't " give down." 

And all ye who read this jingle, who peruse this 

lilting lyric, 
Will ye say, " His cow was stubborn when he 

botched that verse, the clown ? " 
You can say, who read this lyric, if you wish to be 

satiric, 
" When the author wrote that lyric, why, his cow 

would not 'give down.' 
Though he milked with much compulsion, and he 

strained with great convulsion, 
She heeded not his prodding, heeded not his kick 

or frown ; 
And she showed the bard no pity when he tried to 

milk this ditty, 

And his old cow wouldn't 'give down,' 

Ah! 
His old cow wouldn't 'give down.'" 



Sambo Washington's Viftdication 



13 



SAMBO IVASHINGTON'S y IN DIG AT ION. 



He stood before the church committee 
In calm, complacent bravery, 
Though charged with many heinous crimes 

And various kinds of knavery. 
"Now, Sambo Washington," they said, 

"You're charged with great obliquities, 
With sundry crimes at various times. 

And many grave iniquities." 
"Yes, sah," said Sambo Washington, 

" Ise done some frauds perdigious ; 
But, bress de Lawd ! for ebery fraud 

Was pious an' religious. 

" Ise done kermitted var'ous crimes. 

An' sins er great variety ; 
But ebery sin dat I has done 

I done for troof an' piety." 
" But how about John Gray's gold pen > 

Also his gold penholder.?" 
Then Sambo grew the size of two. 

And answered frank and bolder, 
"A pious feehn' tuk me, Jedge, 

An' I could not control it. 



14 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

Wif dat pen, Jedge, I signed de pledge ; 
An' dat was why I stole it." 

"But Enoch Hardy's watch and chain?" 

" I stole um, Jedge, fum Hardy. 
Befo' dat date Ise alius late 

To Sunday-school, an' tardy. 
But, bress de Lawd ! dat ar gol' watch 

Am bery akkerit, bery; 
No mo' Ise late an' after date 

In His great sanctuary. 
I reach in time de house ob pra'r. 

No mo' is I belated; 
An', bress my soul ! dat watch I stole, 

To troof am consecrated." 

" But how about that suit of clothes t " 

" Dat soot," said Sambo, rising, 
" I stole dat soot to serve de Lawd 

An' wear at my baptizin'." 
''But how about those two fat fowls?" 

" I tuk dem fowls, yo' Honah, 
Fum ol' John Bell, a infidel, 

A scoffah, an' a scornah ; 
Fum dat bad, unbelievin' man, 

Dat unregenerit sinner, 
Dem fowls I stole fum dat lost soul 

Fer Elder Putnam's dinner." 




MgB 



On this wide planet there is room 

For men of opposite creed; 
There's room for Mr. Justin Bloom 

And Mr. Gontoseed. 
For both these mortals there is need, 

For both there's ample room, 
Though Justin Bloom hates Gontoseed, 

And Gontoseed hates Bloom. 



" Out from the dead past's darkened gloom 

I march to break of day ; 
I face the sun," says Justin Bloom, 

"Tap drums, and march away!" 
15 



Whiffs from IVild Meadows 

" The wisdom of the ancient days 

Serves all my spirit's need ; 
I keep the good old precious ways," 

Says Mr. Gontoseed. 

And Justin Bloom, if left alone. 

Would set the world on fire ; 
And Gontoseed, and all his breed. 

Would stagnate in the mire. 
While one would plunge in the abyss. 

One saunter on the grass, 
One holds back from the precipice. 

One leaps the wide morass. 

Though one is full of rest and sleep. 

And one is full of noise, 
They both together work to keep 

The world in equipoise. 
On this wide planet there is room 

For both ; and both we need. 
Three cheers, three cheers for Justin Bloom ! 

Three cheers for Gontoseed! 



The Co7ifessions of a Lunkhead 17 



THE CONFESSIONS OF A LUNKHEAD 



I'm a lunkhead, an' I know it ; 'tain't no use to 

squirm an' talk, 
I'm a gump an' I'm a lunkhead, I'm a lummux, 

I'm a gawk. 
An' I make this interduction so thet all you folks 

can see 
An' understan' the natur' of the critter thet I be. 

I alius wobble w'en I walk, my j'ints are out er 

gear. 
My arms go flappin' through the air, jest like an 

el'phunt's ear ; 
An' w'en a womern speaks to me I stutter an' 

grow weak, 
A big frog rises in my throat, an' he won't let me 

speak. 

Wall, thet's the kind er thing I be; but in our 

neighborhood 
Lived young Joe Craig an' young Jim Stump an' 

Hiram Underwood. 
We growed like corn in the same hill, jest like four 

sep'rit stalks ; 



i8 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

For they wuz lunkheads, jest like me, an' luni' 
muxes an' gawks. 



Now, I knew I wuz a lunkhead ; but them fellers 

didn' know, 
Thought they wuz the bigges' punkins an' the 

purtiest in the row. 
An' I, I uster laff an' say, "Them lunkhead chaps 

will see 
Wen they go out into the worl' w'at gawky things 

they be.'' 

Joe Craig, he wuz a lunkhead, but it didn' get 
through his pate ; 

I guess you've all heerd tell of him — he's gov'nor 
of the State ! 

Jim Stump, he blundered off to war — a most un- 
common gump — 

Didn' know enough to know it — an' he come 
home General Stump. 

Then Hiram Underwood went off, the bigges' gawk 

of all. 
We thought him hardly bright enough to share in 

Adam's fall ; 
But he tried the railroad biz'ness, an' he alius 

grabbed his share, — 



The Confessiojis of a Lunkhead 1 9 

Now this gawk who didn't know it is a fifty mil- 
lionaire. 

An' often out here hoein' I set down atween the 

stalks, 
Thinkin' how we four together all were lummuxes 

an' gawks, 
All were gumps an' all were lunkheads, only they 

didn' know, yer see ; 
An' I ask, " If I hadn' known it, where in natur' 

would / be?" 

For I stayed to home an' rastled in the cornfiel', like 

a chump, 
Coz I knew I wuz a lunkhead an' a lummux an' a 

gump ; 
But if on'y I hadn' known it, like them other fellers 

there, 
To-day I might be settin' in the presidential chair. 

We all are lunkheads — don't git mad — an' lum- 
muxes an' gawks ; 

But us poor chaps who know we be — we walk in 
humble walks. 

So, I say to all good lunkheads. Keep yer own 
selves in the dark; 

Don't own or reckernize the fact, an' you will make 
yer mark. 



20 Whiffs from Wild Aleadows 



FIXING THE OLD THING RIGHT 



Said Adam unto Seth, his son, 

" My boy, my life is nearly done ; 

I am the first man ever made, 

And yet a failure, I'm afraid. 

And you, my boy, must bring to men 

Your father's Eden back again. 

You must correct our great mistake, 

Our foolish blunder with the snake. 

The world has wandered from the light; 

Go in and fix the old thing right." 

Said Seth to Enos, his first born, 

"My boy, your life is in its morn; 

You've scarcely passed from boyhood's stage, 

You're but four hundred years of age. 

I've struggled on through hopes and fears, 

And lived above five hundred years ; 

And now I feel that there can be 

But a few centuries more for me. 

I've tried my prettiest since my birth 

To steer and regulate the earth; 



Fixing the Old Thijig Right 

But all of Nature's plan, I fear, 
Is pretty badly out of gear. 
So, while I travel toward the night, 
Go in and fix the old thing right." 

Said Enos unto Cainan, " Lad, 
I fear the world is growing bad • 




But when I see before me spread 
Your large development of head, 
And know you deem all wisdom shut 
And focussed in your occiput, 
I feel that here is one at last 
Who should redeem the wretched past ; 
And so I say, take up the fight, 
Go in and fix the old thing right." 



Said Cainan to Mahalaleel, 

"The envious years upon me steal. 



22 Whiffs frofn Wild Meadows 

And now I feel as old and dried 

As father Enos when he died. 

Though I possessed, as father said, 

A large development of head, 

The world would ' haw ' when I said ' gee,' 

And ' gee ' when I said ' haw.' Ah, me ! 

I've tried for these nine hundred years 

To drive this balky yoke of steers ; 

And now I pass the goad to you. 

To do the best that you can do. 

And when old Cainan fades from sight, 

Go in and fix the old thing right." 

Mahalaleel to Jared said, 

" My son, 'tis time that I were dead ; 

And in this view of mine, I guess. 

You too have come to acquiesce. 

The world has reached a sorry plight ; " 

Go in and fix the old thing right." 

So Jared, when his life was done, 
The same to Enoch talked, his son. 
And Enoch, like a faithful pa, 
The same to young Methuselah, 
Who near a thousand years of strife 
Mourned o'er the brevity of life. 
And said to Lamech, " Life is short, 
And very little I have wrought, 



Fixing the Old Thing Right 23 

Though I might make the world subUme 

And perfect, if I had the time. 

But in my life's contracted span 

I have but merely just began ; 

No earthly power my life can save, 

I seek my premature grave. 

My son, take up the unfinished fight ; 

Go in and fix the old thing right." 

Soon Lamech left the world to Noah, 
Just as his fathers had before. 
And then the Flood came on to rout 
And drown the whole Creation out ; 
Though all had tried with main and might, 
They failed to fix the old thing right. 

But when a man is born to-day. 

He starts out in the good old way, 

And bravely works from dawn till night. 

To try to fix the old thing right. 

The same old lightning in the blood 

That thrilled men's hearts before the Flood, 

Drives all men to the endless fight. 

To try and fix the old thing right. 

And though the clouds of doubt draw nigh. 

And shut the sun from out the sky, 

And though life marches through the gloom 

To music of the steps of doom, 



24 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

A voice comes through the darkness far, 
And smites the cloud-wrack Uke a star, 
And makes its thunder-blackness bright, 
" Go in and fix the old thing right." 



He Worried About It 



25 



HE WORRIED ABOUT IT 



The sun's heat will give out in ten million years 
more, — 

And he worried about it. 
It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before — 

And he worried about it. 
It will surely give out, so the scientists said 
In all scientifical books he had read, 
And the whole boundless universe then will be 
dead — 

And he worried about it. 

And some day the earth will fall into the sun — 
And he worried about it — 

Just as sure and as straight as if shot from a gun — • 
And he worried about it. 

" When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps. 

Just picture," he said, " what a fearful collapse ! 

It will come in a few million ages perhaps " — 
And he worried about it. 

And the earth will become much too small for 
the race — 

And he worried about it — 



26 



Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure 
space — 

And he worried about it. 
The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt, 
There won't be room for one's tongue to stick out. 
Nor room for one's thoughts to wander about — 

And he worried about it. 




And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New Eng- 
land grow torrider — 

And he worried about it — 
Than was ever the climate of southernmost 
Florida — 

And he worried about it. 
Our ice crop will be knocked into small smith. 

ereens. 
And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines, 
And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and 
beans — 

And he worried about it. 



He Worried About It 27 

And in less than ten thousand years, there's no 
doubt — 

And he worried about it — 
Our supply of lumber and coal will give out — 

And he worried about it. 
Just then the ice-age will return cold and raw, 
Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched 

in awe, 
As if vainly beseeching a general thaw — 

And he worried about it. 

His wife took in washing — half a dollar a day — 

He didn't worry about it — 
His daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to 

pay — 

He didn't worry about it. 
While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub 
On the washboard drum of her old wooden tub, 
He sat by the stove, and he just let her rub — 
He didn't worry about it. 



28 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



HAYTOIVN'S BOOM 



They said that Haytown would just boom when 

Dorkins's creamery came, 
And take its place upon the map with other 

towns of fame ; 
They talked as if this creamery, when on the 

town it burst, 
Would start another Eden more salubrious than 

the first. 

And so, day after day, the town to Badger's store 

would flock. 
And hold a glorious fast from work, and have a 

feast of talk ; 
Through years of hopeful waiting did these tillers 

of the soil 
Keep up a maximum of talk, a minimum of toil. 

And so, at last, when Dorkins came, the impe- 
cunious crowd 

All went to him beseeching loans, with pleadings 
long and loud ; 

And Dorkins dropped at every tale the sympa- 
thetic tear. 



Haytown^s Boom 29 

And also dropped his precious cash, and failed 
up in a year. 

And then the rumor spread abroad, a railroad 

would come down 
From Cheltenham to Yonkersville, and pass right 

through the town ; 
And they all thought the earliest train would 

bring the town success, 
Would bring down the millennium, prepaid, by 

fast express. 

They talked as if the freight trains through each 

man's yard would roar. 
And bring round bars of solid gold to drop at 

each man's door ; 
And every man at Badger's store was burdened 

with the care 
Of how he'd spend his money when he grew a 

millionaire. 

And after many weary years the railroad did come 

down. 
And half the people took this chance to just 

move out of town ; 
And they all reasoned thankfully, " Why should 

we longer stay, 
When Providence has furnished such a means to 

get away ? " 



30 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

But all the men who stayed behind soon had an- 
other tale, 

How 'twas proposed in Haytown to erect the 
county jail. 

" The jail is coming ! " shouted all, the matron, 
man, and boy. 

"The jail is coming!" and the town did effer- 
vesce with joy. 

"And when the jail shall come," they said, 

" 'twill give the town a boom, 
Our fame shall go to all the world loud as the 

crack of doom ; 
And all the country round about shall envy us 

afar, 
A good two-story granite jail will give us grand 

tdatr' 

And in two years the jail was built, a landmark 

highly prized. 
And the best hopes of Haytown then were fully 

realized ; 
The hopes involved in this new jail, like others 

did not fail. 
For soon one-half the town secured apartments 

in the jail. 



Land On Your Feet 31 



LAnD ON YOUR FEET 



You take a cat up by the tail, 

And whirl him round and round, 
And hurl him out into the air, 

Out into space profound, 
He through the yielding atmosphere 

Will many a whirl complete; 
But when he strikes upon the ground 

He'll land upon his feet. 

Fate takes a man, just like a cat. 

And, with more force than grace. 
It whirls him wiggling round and round, 

And hurls him into space ; 
And those that fall upon the back. 

Or land upon the head. 
Fate lets them lie there where they fall- 

They're just as good as dead. 

But some there be that, like the cat. 
Whirl round and round and round, 

And go gyrating off through space. 
Until they strike the ground; 



32 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

But when at last the ground and they 

Do really come to meet, 
You'll always find them right side up — 

They land upon their feet. 

And such a man walks off erect, 

Triumphant and elate. 
And with a courage in his heart 

He shakes his fist at fate ; 
Then fate with a benignant smile 

Upon its face outspread, 
Puts forth its soft, caressing hand 

And pats him on the head. 

And he's fate's darling from that day. 

His triumph is complete; 
Fate loves the man who whirls and whirls, 

But lands upon his feet. 
That man, whate'er his ups and downs, 

Is never wholly spurned. 
Whose perpendicularity 

Is never overturned. 



Erastus Wren's Virtue 33 



ERA ST US IVREN'S VIRTUE 



Erastus Wren was virtuous, in spirit and in letter, 
Was very virtuous and good, and daily growing 

better ; 
And so immaculate was he, his neighbors, men and 

maids. 
They daily looked to see the wings sprout from his 

shoulder-blades. 

He wouldn't eat rice ; he wouldn't drink tea no more 

than he'd drink rum. 
For they were grown by heathen hands in darkest 

heathendom ; 
He'd have no fellowship, he said, with men who 

thus behaved. 
Nor boom the industries of men so totally depraved. 

So he lived devoid of coffee and of cocoanuts and 

spice. 
And when his folks had lemon-pie he never touched 

a slice ; 
And he'd never taste of pudding, nay! unless, 

beyond a doubt, 



34 



Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



The cook deposed and guaranteed all nutmeg was 
left out. 



He wouldn't wear cotton shirts at all, because he 
was afraid 




The girls who work in cotton mills are sometimes 

underpaid ; 
And once he thought he'd wear no wool, it gave 

him such a shock 
When he was told that one black sheep was found 

in every flock. 



Erastus Wren^s Virtue 



35 



And he never read the papers, and he never would 

begin, 
He said they reeked with wickedness, iniquity, and 

sin ; 
He wouldn't consult the dictionary, nor turn a leaf, 

not he. 
Because he said it held bad words no good man 

ought to see. 

There was no food for him to eat, no clothes for 

him to wear. 
No mental sustenance at all to suit him anywhere; 
And so he died, — the thing to do to round out his 

perfection, — 
And not a living man arose to make the least 

objection. 



Let loftier poets sing of knights, 

Of fairies, sylphs, and satyrs, 
Of sprites and fays of ancient days, 

And other outworn matters, 
Of kings and ancient heroes brave — 

I sing a newer-comer, 
A man whom fate created late. 

Her masterpiece, — the drummer. 

He never fears the face of man, 

Meets all men on a level ; 
Nor snub nor bruise can make him lose 

His perpendicular bevel. 
Brave as those mythic crews who sought 

The Hesperidian apples ; 
For, unafraid, with lords of trade 

And merchant kings he grapples. 

He fights with monarchs of the mart, 
He meets them in their fastness. 

Shows them his sleek expanse of " cheek/' 
And awes them with its vastness. 
36 



The D}'um.7ner ^7 

The merchant king behind his bales 

Yields to the bold marauder ; 
He cowers and quakes — the drummer takes 

His thousand-dollar order. 



He flies upon the wings of steam, 

Nor times nor tides restrict him ; 
And from his flights he only lights 

To swoop upon his victim. 
He swoops — then comes the tug of tongues, 

Of vibrant voices wrangling; 
Loud blows are dealt — then in his belt 

Another scalp is dangling. 

A thousand miles is but a step. 

The continent a straddle, 
When on his steed of wondrous speed 

He buckles on the saddle. 
The sunrise and the sunset sea 

To him are near together ; 
With tropic glow and polar snow 

He sandwiches his weather. 

The longitudes and latitudes 

He leaps in tireless motion. 
This shuttlecock between New York 

And the Pacific Ocean. 



28 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

This continent waltzer still will dance 
Through states and nations spinning, 

And change his climes as many times 
As most men change their linen. 

"The soul that hustles not shall die," 

This is the creed he preaches ; 
And 'twill agree with you and me 

To heed the truth he teaches. 
Life is no languid holiday, 

No long and idle summer ; 
Come, pack your grip, get up and skip, 

And hustle, like a drummer ! 



The Ideal Husband to His Wife 



39 



THE IDEAL HUSBAND TO HIS IVIFE 



We've lived for forty years, dear wife, 

And walked together side by side, 
And you to-day are just as dear 




As when you were my bride. 
I've tried to make life glad for you, 

One long, sweet honeymoon of joy, 
A dream of marital content, 

Without the least alloy. 
I've smoothed all boulders from our path, 

That we in peace might toil along ; 
By always hastening to admit 

That I was right and you were wrong. 



40 Whiffs fro77t Wild Meadotvs 

No mad diversity of creed 

Has ever sundered me from thee ; 
For I permit you evermore 

To borrow your ideas of me. 
And thus it is, through weal or woe, 

Our love for evermore endures ; 
For I permit that you should take 

My views and creeds, and make them yours. 
And thus I let you have my way, 

And thus in peace we toil along 
For I am willing to admit 

That I am right and you are wrong. 

And when our matrimonial skiff 

Strikes snags in love's meandering stream, 
I lift our shallop from the rocks. 

And float as in a placid dream. 
And well I know our marriage bliss 

While life shall last will never cease ; 
For I shall always let thee do. 

In generous love, just what I please. 
Peace comes, and discord flies away, 

Love's bright day follows hatred's night; 
For I am ready to admit 

That you are wrong and I am right. 

Dear wife, when discord reared its head, 
And love's sweet light forgot to shine, 



The Ideal Husband to His Wife 41 

'Twas then I freely would permit 

That thy will should'st conform to mine. 
In all things, whether great or small, 

In all life's path we've wandered through, 
I've graciously let you perform 

Just what I wanted you to do. 
No altercation could destroy 

The love that held us sure and strong ; 
For evermore would I admit 

That I was right and you were wrong. 

Sweet wedded love ! O life of bliss ! 

Our years in peace have flown along; 
For you admit that I was right, 

And I admit that you were wrong. 
No dogged stubbornness of soul 

Has ever wrenched my heart from thine ; 
For thy will ever was my own 

Because thy will was always mine. 
So sweet forgiveness crowns our years, 

And sheds on us its tender light ; 
For I admit that you were wrong, 

And you admit that I was right. 



42 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE SILENCE OF JED DURKEE 



There is some men is cataract men, their talk for- 
ever flows ; 

They are real Niag'ry spouters — an' I hain't no 
use for those. 

They talk as fast as fellers work w'en workin' by 
the job ; 

Their speech, w'en shelled, is one part corn an' 
ninety-nine parts cob. 

Jed Durkee was a diff'runt sort ; I tol' my wife his 

tongue 
Had slipped the trolley-wire off that hitched it to 

his lung. 
He kinder had to fish for words, an' bob his bait a 

sight, 
An' sometimes bob a half a day afore he'd get a 

bite. 

He'd cock his eye an' lissen, but he'd never move 

his lip, 
An' let the other fellers spout, but never raise a yip ; 
An' if the sillickman himself should stop an' talk to 

Jed, 



The Silence of Jed Durkee 43 

'Twas ten to one if Jed would smile or open up his 
head. 

But Jed he had a little gal, an' she alone could 

creep 
Up to the sluiceway of his heart an' open up his 

deep ; 




An' then the stored-up elerkunce of forty years of 

strife 
Flowed through the thirsty medders of his dusty, 

dried-up life. 

W'y, w'en he talked about that gal, his piled words 

came in waves, 
Demosthernes an' Sissero flopped over in their 

graves ; 
The great sea of his speech bust loose, bust loose 

before he knowed, — 



44 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

'Twas high tide in his natur', an' his ocean over- 
flowed. 

To hear him talk about that gal beat all the flowery 

pomes 
Of John Shakespeare, William Milton, or Wendull 

Phillups Holmes. 
Like showers on a sultry day, he made the earth 

rejoice ; 
For there was lightnin' in his eye an' thunder in 

his voice ! 

She put new ginger in his blood an' new wine in 

his brain ; 
She put new yeast into his soul an' made it rise 

again ; 
She made him a new heaven an' earth, a new heart 

an' new head. 
An' out of miser'ble job-stock a bran' new man of 

Jed. 

In a foreign Ian' of silence he had alius strayed 

apart ; 
But she played upon the long strings of the fiddle 

of his heart. 
Touched 'em with her baby fingers, an' she played 

upon 'em long — 
An' he left the Lan' of Silence for the Music Lan' 

of Song ! 



The Silence of Jed Durkee 45 

There's music in the dumbest man that can be 

made to start 
If the proper kin' of fiddler on'y fiddles with his 

heart ; 
Music sweet of fifes and bugles, cornets, violins, an' 

drums. 
Wen to the thousan'-stringed ol' harp the right 

musician comes. 

Little Nancy was the right one, an' she woke him 

from the dead. 
An' she drew out splendid music from the cracked 

ol' harp of Jed. 
Wen little Nancy went away beyon' these scenes 

of strife, 
Then all the music died away from ol' Jed Durkee's 

life. 

Back into the Lan' of Silence did he travel fur 

away, 
An' the fiddle-strings were silent, for there warn't 

no han' to play — 
Back into his dead, dumb exile, back into his Silent 
i Lan' — 

An' he's waitin' there the beck'nin' of his little 

Nancy's han'. 




~JM 



In seventeen hundred seventy-two 

Did the good matron, Prudence True, 

A saintly soul devoid of guilt, 

Begin her famous crazy quilt, 

And told her helpmeet, Goodman True, 

She'd finish in a month or two ; 

And Goodman True, as good men do, 

Believed his good wife. Prudence True. 

And when he found his supper late. 
Brave Goodman True in silence sate, 
And waited till his good wife built 
Another square of crazy quilt. 
He did not rave or loudly speak, — 
Much married life had made him meek, — 
For he had learned from his sweet bride 
A husband's part is to subside, 
To sit serene, composed, and dumb, 
And in domestic peace succumb. 
He on the martyr plan was built, 
And lived a martyr to that quilt. 
46 



Prudence True's Crazy Quilt 47 

Good Prudence True, as good dames do, 
Each day her loved task would pursue ; 
Each evening her brave husband tried 
To look content and edified, 
And those slow, patient hours beguile 
With his sad, long-enduring smile. 
Long years did that poor, sad soul wilt. 
Then die at last — of crazy quilt. 

Long years passed on, and Widow True 
Toiled on, as all good widows do. 
And in her calm seclusion curled 
Heard not the noises of the world. 
The echoes of the Concord fight, 
The battle fought on Bunker's height. 
The cannonade from Yorktown blown, 
That scared King George upon his throne, 
She heeded as a trivial thing ; 
For what are conqueror or king 
To a good dame whose life is built 
Into her darling crazy quilt ? 

She never thought if she preferred 

George Washington to George the Third ; 

Her quilt was life's supremest thing, 

Both under president and king ; 

While loyal to her quilt and true, 

She thought that either George would do. 



48 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

Gray, full of years, the good soul died. 
And passed on to the Glorified, 
And left this scene of woe and guilt 
And her unfinished crazy quilt. 

And then her youngest daughter, Ruth, 

In all the hopefulness of youth, 

That knows no obstacle or fears, 

Took up the mighty task of years. 

Her smile was sweet, her eyes were bright, 

Her touch was fairy-like and light ; 

And lovers read within her eyes 

The tale of happy destinies. 

And many came and knelt and sued ; 

But on the quilt her eyes were glued. 

She saw them not as there they knelt, 

Love's hurtling dart she never felt. 

But gave them all to understand 

She had a mission great and grand, 

A noble and exalted aim 

Beyond preposterous Cupid's claim ; 

A great ambition, grand and high. 

To finish up that quilt and die. 

And brave Ruth kept her purpose good 
Through fourscore years of maidenhood ; 
And so she lived and died a maid. 
And when she in the grave was laid. 



Prudence True V Crazy Q,uilt ^9 

Her sister's youngest daughter, Sue, 
Took her unfinished quilt to do. 

Meantime old empires passed away. 

Old kingdoms fell ni slow decay, 

And senile monarchs, weary grown. 

Slipped down from many a tottering throne; 

Old realms were conquered by their foes, 

Old kingdoms fell, new nations rose ; 

And long engendered wars that rent 

The bases of a continent 

Swept on their path of fire and death. 

And shrivelled with their fatal breath 

The slow-built fabric of the years. 

And left a track of blood and tears. 

But while the whirling world did range 

Adown "the ringing grooves of change," 

While Time's resistless current flowed. 

Young Sue she sewed and sewed and sewed 

And sewed and sewed, and slowly built 

The squares upon that crazy quilt. 

And now she's old and bent and gray, 
Her youthful friends have passed away, 
Her loving husband's tomb is built — 
But still she works upon her quilt. 
And now, deserted and forlorn, 
To generations yet unborn. 



50 Whiff's from Wild Meadows 

When she has left this world of guilt, 
She'll pass along her crazy quilt. 

In six short days the world was done, 
The world, the planets, and the sun ; 
But in a hundred years are built 
A fraction of a crazy quilt. 



The Deacon. V Bear - Yar7t 



THE DEACON'S BEAR-YARN 



When the Deacon told his bear-yarn we would 

gather round to hear him, 
In open-mouthed expectancy to drink in all he said ; 
For all list'ners who drew near him could not 

choose but to revere him, 
For an aureole of honor rested on the Deacon's 

head. 
'Twas a tale of gore and slaughter, where the red 

blood flowed like water, 
Such as ear had never heard of, or the heart could 

not conceive ; 
But our faith did never weaken in that bear-yarn of 

the Deacon — 
When the Deacon told his bear-yarn we would 

listen and believe. 

We had listened to the horse-liar and the fish-liar 

and the snake-liar. 
But they told no tale of wonder with the Deacon's 

to compare ; 
Though their tales were dark and dire, not a tale of 

not a liar 



52 



IVhiJfs from Wild Meadows 



Approached the truthful story of the Deacon and 

the bear. 
'Twas a tale of awful terror, but without a shade of 

error ; 
And whereas it was impossible the Deacon could 

deceive, 




We knew the Deacon's bear-yarn was an honest, 

fair, and square yarn — 
When the Deacon told his bear-yarn we would 

listen and believe. 



When the Deacon told his bear-yarn we could hear 
the bones a-breaking, 



The Deacon's Bear -Yam 53 

And the loud reverberations of the bear's resound- 
ing growl ; 

We could feel the mountains shaking, and the very 
planet quaking, 

And the air a-palpitating with the thunder of his 
howl. 

Oh, the sanguinary, savage fierceness of the awful 
ravage 

Of the roaring, ravening monster, heart of man can- 
not conceive ! 

But, whereas we knew the Deacon from the truth 
could never weaken — 

When the Deacon told his bear-yarn we would 
listen and believe. 



When the fierce bear wound his red jaws round the 
white neck of the Deacon, 

And we heard the Deacon gurgle with a death- 
gasp of despair, 

How our trembling knees would weaken as we 
gazed upon the Deacon, 

And our lifted hats go flying from our perpendicu- 
lar hair ! 

When into the mad bear's vitals — strangest of all 
strange recitals — 

Did the Deacon plunge his right arm, with its reek- 
ing, bloody sleeve, 



54 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

And tear out the bear's heart beating, as you'd 

tear a piece of sheeting — 
When the Deacon told this bear-yarn we would 

listen and believe. 

Fiercer, wilder, grew the contest every time we did 

behold it, 
Wilder, fiercer, fought the Deacon, fiercer, wilder, 

raged the bear; 
It was bloodier, more terrific, every time the Deacon 

told it, 
Till at length there was no story with this bear-yarn 

could compare. 
Bear and Deacon mixed and mangled, gore in- 
crusted, blood bespangled. 
Dance through sanguinary waltzes that the mind 

cannot conceive ; 
But there is a deathless beauty in all truth, and 'tis 

our duty 
When the Deacon tells his bear-yarn just to listen 

and believe. 



Gideon Gaskins 's Deaths 



GIDEON GASKINS' S DEATHS 



Old Gideon Gaskins used to die 

With unexampled frequency ; 
Indeed, the joys of death to him 

Possessed unusual piquancy. 
An upright, downright man was he, 

Of rule and regulation ; 
And, barring his repeated deaths, 

He had no dissipation. 
He lived a life of ordered peace, 

Of sweetness, truth, and charity ; 
But through his long and honored life 

He died with regularity. 

And every time that Gideon died 

He wished the sad reality 
To be observed and recognized 

With decent-like formality ; 
And so his heirs about his bed 

Were ranged in due position, 
To hear at each repeated death 

His dying admonition. 



56 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

They shed a proper flood of tears, 
Their sobs were uncontrollable, 

And every time that Gideon died 
Their grief was inconsolable. 

And every time that Gideon died 

He gave an exhortation, 
To which he'd given life-long thought 

And years of preparation ; 
A speech that sagged with good advice 

Which he had learned memoriter, 
Which made a fame for Gideon 

As a great dying orator. 
And when he'd made this dying speech 

To friend and heir and lover. 
The dying Gideon would begin 

To speedily recover. 

And then the iron grasp of death 

That's usually so rigorous. 
Would quietly let go its grip 

And leave him strong and vigorous. 
But then within a month or two 

The summons would go flying 
To all of Gideon's heirs to come, 

For he once more was dying ; 
And when the weeping heirs once more 

About his bed were seated, 



Gideon Gaskins^s Deaths 57 

Then would his time-worn dying speech 
Be once again repeated. 

And so he died year after year, 

Till all his heirs were buried, 
Till they in Charon's fatal boat 

Had o'er the stream been ferried. 
For all his heirs they died one death, 

And lived a life of brevity; 
But he who died so frequently 

Attained a great longevity. 
Ye who would taste a long, sweet life 

In all its lengthy piquancy, 
When you are young begin to die. 

And keep it up with frequency. 



58 



Whiffs fro7?i Wild Meadows 



BEN BURLAP'S BARN 



Ben Burlap bragged about his barn with every 

man he see ; 
He said it wuz the finest barn that any barn 

could be. 
Sez he, " The worl' is full er barns ; but still I 

calkerlate 
There ain't no barn like Burlap's barn, an' hain't 

been up to date." 





An' w'en yer saw a wild-eyed man who raised 

consid'ble rumpus, 
An' waved an' flapped his arms aroun' to all 

p'ints of the compass, 
An' swished his whiskers in the wind, an' spun a 

half-day yarn. 
You'd know it wuz Ben Burlap, sure, expoundin' 

on his barn. 



Ben Burlap's Barn 59 

An' I went down to see his barn ; he hung on so 

like sin, 
One day I tol' my wife I guessed I'd go an' 

take it in. 
'Twuz jest ez good ez Jim hed said, ez fine ez 

it could be ; 
It beat all barns I ever see, or ever 'spect to see. 

Wen I come out, sez I to Jim, "What's that 
small buildin' there. 

That kinder wobbly lookin' thing, that tumble- 
down affair? 

It looks so ricketty an' weak, 'tain't fit to hoi' a 
mouse." 

" Oh, yes," sez Jim, " it's full er mice ; that ar hut 
is my house." 



6o Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



DESERTED FARMS 



Yes, the farms is all deserted ; there is no one 

here to see 
But jest a few ol' women an' a few ol' men like 

me ; 
But we still cling, like ol' gray moss, a little tot- 

terin' band — 
We cling like ol' gray moss aroun' the ruins of 

the land. 

or Christopher Columbus, in fourteen ninety- 
two. 

He lifted up a bright green worl' from out the 
ocean blue ; 

But all thet New Worl' hereabouts — an' Pokum- 
ville ain't small, — 

Our young men hez diskivered ain't worth livin' 
in at all. 

There ain't no room atween the rocks to dig a 

livin' out ; 
Our soil is much too thin and poor to make a 

fortune sprout; 



Deserted Farms 6i 

Our scrub-oaks bear no greenback leaves, an' in 

our tater-hills 
We have to dig too long an' hard to scratch out 

dollar bills. 

An' so our boys hez travelled off to where the 

millions go 
To dig a golden harvesting without a spade or 

hoe ; 
An' down the railroad, through the gulch, be'end 

their father's sight. 
They went an' left us ol' men to the shadders of 

the night. 

But some hez foun' the rocks an' weeds still 

choke a barren land, 
An' life is not all intervale, but some is dusty 

sand ; 
An' he who digs a harvest in the country or the 

town 
Must hoe among the stubborn rocks an' keep ihe 

thistles down. 

But 'tis better for the young man an' the ol' man 

side by side 
To drive life's team together, an' so down the 

journey ride ; 



62 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

An' w'en the ol' man, tires out an' falls asleep 

some day, 
The young man, he can take the reins an' ride 

upon his way. 

But our farms is all deserted ; there is no one 

here to see 
But jest a few oF women an' a few ol' men like 

me ; 
But we still cling, like ol' gray moss, a little 

totterin' band — 
We cling like ol' gray moss aroun' the ruins of 

the land. 




I'm a Presbyterian deacon, and I wish to plainly- 
state 

That every kind of circus is entirely reprobate ; 

They all are instrumental in advancing Satan's 
plan, 

An evidence of the innate depravity of man. 

A vanity of vanities, and there is nothing worse, 
A vile abomination and a pestilential curse ; 
And I make it thus emphatic, for I wish all men 

to know 
To every kind of circus I'm an unrelenting foe. 



And down to Grassville yesterday, where I went 
down to trade, 

63 



64 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

The wicked circus came to town, and had a big 

parade ; 
And I beheld there watching it, in most ungodly joy, 
In graceless, unregenerate glee, a woman and her 

boy. 

And I thought it was my duty, as a deacon in 
the land. 

To give that wicked woman my professional rep- 
rimand. 

I tried to do it piously, and said my little say, 

Mixed with Scriptural quotations in an edifying way. 

And then she said, " Why , me and Jim have 

walked ten miles to-day 
To see the big procession ; do you think it's wrong 

to stay ? 
And every day now for three months my Jim and 

I have made 
The tired time pass quicker when we've talked 

of this parade. 

"Jim is a small boy, mister, and boys are fond of 

fun ; 
But there's nothing for a widow's boy but work 

from sun to sun. 
And, like a little hero, he has worked in sun 

and shade, 



The Deacon and the Circus 65 

And the only thought to cheer him was the 
dream of this parade. 

" And we've walked ten miles to see it, and 

must now walk home again ; 
But for a year will this parade go marching 

through Tim's brain, 
And when his young limbs ache with toil, and 

his young heart is sore, 
He will hear its blare and music, and will then 

be strong once more. 

" Come, Jim," she said ; " the big parade has now 

passed out of sight, 
And we must start upon our trip to get back 

home to-night." 
"Just wait a bit," says I to her, "just wait a 

bit, don't go ; 
For here's two dollar bills for you, — go in and 

see the show." 

I'm a Presbyterian deacon, and I wish to plainly 

state 
That every kind of circus is entirely reprobate ; 
But when I gave that money, I've a faith that 

will abide 
That the Recording Angel placed it on my credit 

side. 



66 Whiffs froTJt Wild Meadows 



JED JOHNSON'S ADVICE 



Wen ol' Ben Badger's pug-nosed Pete 

Declared he'd wallop me, 
I jest took up my laigs an' run, 

Ez scat ez I could be ; 
But ol' Jed Johnson said to me, 

" Don't be a baby, Jim ; 
You'll fin' he's jest ez scat of you 

Ez you are scat of him. " 

Bimeby w'en I fust fell in love 

My brain wuz in a whirl ; 
But ol' Jed Johnson said to me, 

" Young man, go tell the girl. 
Yes, you are scat to death, 'tis true ; 

But let me tell ye, sir, 
You'll fin' her jest ez scat of you 

Ez you are scat of her." 

An' w'en I run for sillickman 

Agin ol' Hiram Brown, 
He run so well I felt thet I 

Mus' haul my colors down ; 



Jed Johnson'' s Advice - 67 

But then Jed Johnson said to me, 
" Hi Brown's a good un, Jim ; 

But then he's jest ez scat of you 
Ez you are scat of him." 

An' so I licked Ben Badger's Pete, 

An' won ol' Podgkin's Sal ; 
An' she's ez scrumptious ez a wife 

Ez she was ez a gal. 
I whipped ol' Brown for sillickman 

So quick his head did swim ; 
I foun' he wuz ez scat of me 

Ez I wuz scat of him. 

An' so I say, wade in, young man, 

An' though yer nerve is weak, 
An' though yer tremble like a leaf, 

An' feel yer lack of cheek, 
Go wade right in among the crowd, 

An' every current stem ; 
You'll fin' they're jest ez scat of you 

Ez you are scat of them. 



68 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



DURKEE'S MILL 



The world, they say, is heaped with weahh, 

Its vaults are stored with treasure, 
Enough to purchase bread for all, 

And fill the world with pleasure. 
And food enough is in the land 

All hungry mouths to fill ; 
But all we eat and wear must come 

Through Durkee's cotton-mill. 
And great fear settled on the town 
When Durkee's cotton-mill shut down. 

There is a world that's filled with joy, 

And strewn with blooming flowers ; 
But, outside Durkee's cotton-mill 

No world for us and ours. 
When the great wheel of Durkee's mill 

Paused and no longer whirled. 
It seemed the great God with his hand 

Had stopped the rolling world ; 
For all the world we hope to fill 
Is bound in Durkee's cotton-mill. 



Durkee^s Mill 69 

From dawn to dusk in Durkee's mill 

We toil and never shirk ; 
No time to think, no time to feel, 

And only time to work. 
And many a web of cotton cloth 

That mill has woven, no doubt ; 
And many a man's and woman's life 

That mill has ravelled out. 
But still a great fear smote the town 
When Durkee's cotton-mill shut down. 

There's bitter thoughts for Durkee's mill, 

Now little Bob is dead; 
For had I work in Durkee's mill 

I might have bought him bread. 
"When I go up to heaven," he said, 

"And find God there, you know, 
I will be bold, and ask him then. 

Because I love you so, — 
I'll ask the great God, so I will. 
To start the work in Durkee's mill." 



yo Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE WORK-SEEKER 



You think I'd better go to work? Wall, that's 

my own idee ; 
I'll do it w'en I find the work that's suitable for me. 
Won't give me bread because ye think I'm strong 

enough to work ? 
Wall, w'en I find my kind of toil I'll labor like a 

Turk. 

"Keep strugglin' on," our pastor said, "keep 

strugglin' in life's race. 
For ev'ry man who toils an' tries will alius find 

his place ; 
For Natur' never made a man but at the same 

time, too, 
She made some fittin,' special work for that same 

man to do." 

An' so I started out in life resolved to never shirk, 
To hunt the wide worl' up an' down to find my 

special work. 
I started out to find my work, all ready to begin it ; 
But all the work I ever foun' had too much labor 

in it. 



The Work-Seeker 



At first I worked on father's farm ; but soon I 

come to see 
That never was the kind er work that Natur' 

meant for me. 



.!^0^ 




She surely never meant this kind for sich as me 

to do ; 
For work was far too numerous, an' rest was far 

too few. 

An' next I went into the store of Deacon Isr'el 
Brown, 



72 Whiffs fro?n Wild Meadows 

For oppertunities 'twould give fer rest an' settin' 

down; 
But customers kep' droppin' in to wake me from 

my doze, 
An' broke in on my sleep so much I couldn't 

have no repose. 

An' then I lef the Deacon's store, an' run away 

to sea, 
" I'm boun' to find the work," says I, " that Natur' 

meant for me." 
I kinder liked to sail aroun' beneath them foreign 

skies ; 
But still I foun' the work was mixed with too much 

exercise. 

Sence then I've tramped about the earth to try 

if I could see 
Some kind of unlaborious work that Natur' meant 

for me ; 
And so to help a brave young man to boldly push 

ahead, 
I frankly ask ye for a loan of jest a piece of 

bread. 

That's right; I knew 3'ou'd fetch it out soon as 
my tale was tol' 



The Work-Seeker 73 

You are a woman glad to aid a strong, ambitious 

soul. 
Now you might fetch, to quench my thirst,— I 

find I'm feelin' dry, — 
A glass er milk, some jelly cake, an' sev'rul kinds 

of pie. 



74 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



JACK DAWSON'S PILGRIMAGE 



Jack Dawson lived way down in Maine, 
Hoed corn, raised chickens, and reaped grain ; 
But said that Maine was not designed 
For men of mastery and mind ; 
And said a man of any soul 
Shouldn't vegetate in such a hole. 
" Vermont's the State," says he, " I want ; 
And I'll raise butter in Vermont." 

At butter, then, Jack took a turn, 
But found it too hard work to churn. 
"The air here in Vermont," says he, 
" Is much too rarefied for me ; 
No man of enterprise and dash, 
Who hankers after fame and cash, 
Will browse around this barren peak, 
And grind his nose down to a beak ; 
These hills may soak in snow and sleet, — 
I'll go to Kansas and raise wheat." 

Jack found the weevils in his wheat 
Would neither parley nor retreat ; 



Jack Dawson's Pilgrimage 75 

Then said that Kansas was a place 
Unsuited to the human race ; 
But 'twas a most deUghtful State 
From which to skip and emigrate. 
To California he escapes, 
And settles down to raising grapes. 

When half his yearly crop was lost 
By a hard, premature frost, 
Jack said, " This country is a failure ; 
I ship next Monday for Australia." 
He found Australia was too new. 
Its risks too great, its gains too few. 
He said, " No longer I'll stay curled 
In this back entry of the world; 
And this time I propose to go 
To where my gifts will have a show. 
There is a city of some size, 
Wherein a soul of enterprise 
Can heap up piles of gold and gain, 
And find a chance to use his brain, 
And reach great affluence and ren 
And so Jack sailed to London town. 

Jack landed confident and proud. 
But soon was missing in the crowd. 
He mingled in the general swim ; 
And Gladstone never called on him, 



own 



76 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

And still the Queen she sat alone, 
Nor asked him up to share her throne. 
He mingled in the million rout, 
And fate refused to sift him out. 
Jack vanished, but the rolling world 
Upon its axis still was whirled ; 
The symptoms of the universe 
Were not much better nor much worse. 
And when friend Jack appeared again, 
'Twas six months later down in Maine. 

And Jack he settled down in Maine, 

Hoed corn, raised chickens, and reaped grain ; 

He'd travelled round the world to find 

A place just suited to his mind. 

And found it, after years of doubt — 

The town from which he started out. 

"The way to get on fast," says he, 

"Is just to stay right where you be." 



The Calf-Path 77 



THE CALF-PATH 



I. 

One day through the primeval wood 

A calf walked home as good calves should ; 

But made a trail all bent askew, 
A crooked trail as all calves do. 

Since then three hundred )'ears have fled, 
And I infer the calf is dead. 

II. 

But still he left behind his trail, 
And thereby hangs my moral tale. 

The trail was taken up next day 
By a lone dog that passed that way ; 

And then a wise bell-wether sheep 
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep, 

And drew the flock behind him, too. 
As good bell-wethers always do. 

And from that day, o'er hill and glade. 
Through those old woods a path was made. 



78 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

III. 

And many men wound in and out, 

And dodged and turned and bent about, 

And uttered words of righteous wrath 
Because 'twas such a crooked path ; 

But still they followed — do not laugh — 
The first migrations of that calf, 

And through this winding wood-way stalked 
Because he w^obbled when he walked. 

IV. 

This forest path became a lane. 

That bent and turned and turned again ; 

This crooked lane became a road. 
Where many a poor horse with his load 

Toiled on beneath the burning sun. 
And travelled some three miles in one. 

And thus a century and a half 
They trod the footsteps of that calf. 

V. 

The years passed on in swiftness fleet, 
The road became a villa2:e street : 



The Calf-Path 79 

And this, before men were aware, 
A city's crowded thoroughfare. 

And soon the central street was tliis 
Of a renowned metropolis ; 

And men two centuries and a half 
Trod in the footsteps of that calf. 

VI. 

Each day a hundred thousand rout 
Followed this zigzag calf about 

And o'er his crooked journey went 
The traffic of a continent. 

A hundred thousand men were led 

By one calf near three centuries dead. - 

They followed still his crooked way, 
And lost one hundred years a day; 

For thus such reverence is lent 
To well-established precedent. 

VII. 

A moral lesson this might teach 

Were I ordained and called to preach ; 

For men are prone to go it blind 
Along the calf-paths of the mind, 



8o Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

And work away from sun to sun 
To do what other men have done. 

They follow in the beaten track, 
And out and in, and forth and back, 

And still their devious course pursue. 
To keep the path that others do. 

They keep the path a sacred groove. 
Along which all their lives they move ; 

But how the wise old wood-gods laugh, 
Who saw the first primeval calf. 

Ah, many things this tale might teach — 
But I am not ordained to preach. 



The Fly-Away-Bird 



8i 



THE FLY-AWAY-BIRD 



Oh, the Fly-Away-Bird is swift of wing, 
And swift and high is he! 




And he flies as high, in the blue of the sky, 

As any birds that be. 
And fleet of foot is the lusty man. 

As fleet as a winged word, 
Who can sprinkle salt, without default, 

On the tail of the Fly-Away-Bird. 



82 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

But the Fly-Away-Bird seems as tame as a hen, 

Like a barnyard fowl seems he ; 
But the nest he has made, or the Q.gg he has 
laid. 

Is a stubborn absentee. 
And when a man, with a sprinkle of salt, 

Comes near to his roosting-place. 
The bird he darts to the outermost parts 

Of the farthest shores of space. 

But we all chase after the Fly-Away-Bird, 

Over river and mountain and dale. 
And think in an hour we'll have the power 

To sprinkle the salt on his tail ; 
But still, since the base of the planet was laid, 

And the morning stars were heard, 
No fortunate fellow has felt of the mellow 

Bright plumes of the Fly-Away-Bird. 

For the Fly-Away-Bird is our own bright dream, 

'Tis the hope that was born with man ; 
Then follow it far, to the uttermost star. 

To the clear blue's farthest span. 
And the man who has no Fly-Away-Bird 

Is a mortal most forlorn ; 
It were better that he should be sunk in the 
sea, 

Or that he had never been born. 



The Fly-Away-Bird 83 

See ! he lights up there on the Crags of Hope, 

And his wings they gleam in the sun 
With the gorgeous dyes of the sunset skies 

When the summer day is done ; 
And though this bird was never yet caged 

In a narrower cage than the sky, 
Whoso is deterred from chasing the bird, 

'Tis time for that man to die. 

Then up and away for the Fly-Away-Bird ! 

Let us lead him a jolly good race ; 
And let every man know that the bird that flies 
low 

Is no kind of a bird to chase. 
Then up and away for this high-flying fowl ! 

Let him pierce to the deeps of the sky; 
Let him understand, with the salt in our hand. 

We'll chase till the day that we die. 



84 Whiffs from Wild Meadoivs 



TRUTH 

There's a hand on the rudder that will not 
flinch, 

There's no fear in the Pilot's face 
As he guides the worlds, like boats in a storm, 

Through the rocking seas of space. 
And whether they make the harbor at last, 

Beyond the shoals and the swell, 
Or sail forever a shoreless sea, 

I know that all is well. 
And I learn these things from the heart of the 
wood, 

From the solemn soul of the sea ; 
For never a bird in a wire-bound cage 

Told all these things to me. 

And the soul of man is a sunward bird, 
With wings that are made for flight. 

To pierce to the fount of the shining day, 
And float through the depths of night. 

And I read these things in that Bible of God, 
Whose leaves are the spreading sky. 

And the legible face of the dark green sea, 



Truth 85 

With the eye behind the eye. 
For truth is not closed in the lids of a book, 

For its chainless soul is free ; 
And never a bird in a wire-bound cage 

Told all these things to me. 



For truth surges into the open heart, 

And into the willing eye. 
And streams from the breath of the steaming 
earth, 

And drops from the bending sky ; 
'Tis not shut in a book, in a church, or a school, 

Nor cramped in the chains of a creed, 
But lives in the open air and the light 

For all men in their need ! 



86 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

But the fish that swims in a goldfish vase, 

Knows not of the salted sea ; 
And never a bird in a wire-bound cage 

Told all these things to me. 

'Tis the Voice that comes from the gilded peaks, 

From the hills that shoulder the sky, 
Through the topless heights of a man's own 
dreams 

This Voice goes wandering by; 
And who roams the earth with an open heart, 

With an ear attuned to hear, 
Will catch some broken chord of the sound 

Whenever the Voice comes near. 
But not past the prison of custom or creed 

Will the Voice or the Vision flee ; 
And never a bird in a wire-bound cage 

Told all these things to me. 



New Yearns at Hard Fact Meadows 87 



l^EW YEAR'S AT HARD FACT MEADOWS 



Hope came to me last New Year, and told her 

pretty lie, 
How she'd make the earth grow greener, how she'd 

scour up the sky, 
How she'd make the stars shine brighter, ere the 

coming year was done, 
Make the grave moon more resplendent, polish 

up the ancient sun. 

And my bird of promise sat there on a very near- 
by rail, 

And he lightened all my back-yard with the plu- 
mage of his tail ; 

And he gazed with Orphic meaning from the cor- 
ner of his eye. 

Which proceeding I translated, " Come and catch 
me ; here am I." 

And I sauntered out to catch him as he sat there 

on the rail, 
With the salt of expectation to be sprinkled on 

his tail ; 



88 Whiffs fro7?t Wild Meadows 

And I reached my hand to grasp him, with glad 

hope upon my face, 
When I found that he had vanished to the other 

side of space. 

This bird of paradise I chased did never once 
aUght ; 

And the fish in Hope's great ocean, which I bobbed 
for, did not bite ; 

And Fortune's fairest apples grew beyond my long- 
est pole ; 

And Fate's fattest woodchuck dodged me, and 
escaped into his hole. 

My freighted ship that sailed from Spain sank 

'neath the ocean spray ; 
And Fortune's eel it wiggled so I let it slip away; 
And my dark-breasted grapes of luck that hung in 

pendent shapes 
Were stolen by another chap who had a taste for 

grapes. 

On the Go and Get There Railroad, Hope pre- 
sented me a pass, 

Good for a Pullman palace car, with everything 
first-class ; 

And she checked my baggage for me, and she 
said 'twould all be found 



New Yearns at Ha7'd Fact Meadows 89 

At the Get There Central Station where her 
through express was bound. 

Away the engine bounded, and the bridges creaked 
and swayed, 

And the PuUman rocked and trembled, but we 
swept on undismayed ; 

And we dashed on through the fog-banks, till a 
rotten culvert cracked. 

And we rolled down the embankment to the Mead- 
ows of Hard Fact. 

And since then I've bought a pickaxe, and a 

shovel and a hoe. 
And I've ditched the Hard Fact Meadows, and 

I've made 'em bloom and grow ; 
Though I've raised no golden harvest, I have 

made my farming pay ; 
And I've raised fair grass upon them, and it 

makes nutritious hay. 

But still the ancient rumors float into my meadow 
here. 

That Hope makes prodigious promise for the com- 
ing glad New Year ; 

That she offers still free passage on the Go and 
Get There train — 

But I've got my Hard Fact hay-crop to get in 
before the rain. 



9© Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

So the fish in Hope's great ocean I no more invite 

to bite, 
Nor the soaring bird of paradise I beckon to alight ; 
I let Fortune's fairest apples go untroubled by my 

pole, 
And Fate's fattest woodchuck amble his own gait 

into his hole. 

But I've found the Hard Fact Meadows, now I've 
drained them, sweet and fair, 

And I smell the scent of daisies and of clover in 
the air ; 

And though no untoiled-for manna from the gener- 
ous heaven drops — 

Bring my hoe and spade and sickle, I will gather 
in my crops. 



The Fate of Pious Dan 91 



THE FATE OF PIOUS DAN 



" Run down and get the doctor, quick ! " 

Cried Jack Bean with a whoop. 
" Run, Dan ; for mercy's sake be quick ! 

Our baby's got the croup." 
But Daniel shook his solemn head, 

His sanctimonious brow. 
And said, " I cannot go, for I 

Must read my Bible now ; 
For I have regular hours to reaa 
The Scripture for my spirit's need." 

Said Silas Gove to Pious Dan, 

"Our neighbor, 'Rastus Wright, 
Is very sick ; will you come down 

And watch with him to-night?" 
"He has my sympathy," says Dan, 

"And I would sure be there. 
Did I not feel an inward call 

To spend the night in prayer. 
Some other man with Wright must stay; 
Excuse me while I go and pray." 



92 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

"Old Briggs has fallen in the pond ! " 

Cried little Bijah Brown ; 
" Run, Pious Dan, and help him out, 

Or else he sure will drown ! " 
" I trust he'll swim ashore," said Dan, 

" But now my soul is awed. 




And I must meditate upon 

The goodness of the Lord; 
And nothing merely temporal ought 
To interrupt my holy thought." 



So Daniel lived a pious life, 

As Daniel understood. 
But all his neighbors thought he was 

Too pious to be good ; 



The Fate of Pious Dan 93 

And Daniel died, and then his soul, 

On wings of hope elate, 
In glad expectancy flew up 

To Peter's golden gate. 
"Now let your gate wide open fly; 
Come, hasten, Peter! Here am I." 

" I'm sorry. Pious Dan," said he, 

"That time will not allow; 
But you must wait a space, for I 

Must read my Bible now." 
So Daniel waited long and long, 

And Peter read all day. 
" Now, Peter, let me in," he cried. 

Said Peter, " I must pray ; 
And no mean temporal affairs 
Must ever interrupt my prayers." 

Then Satan, who was passing by. 

Saw Dan's poor shivering form. 
And said, " My man, it's cold out here. 

Come down where it is warm." 
The angel baby of Jack Bean, 

The angel 'Rastus Wright, 
And old Briggs, a white angel too. 

All chuckled with delight; 
And Satan said, " Come, Pious Dan, 
For you are just my style of man." 



94 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



A MISLAID CONTINENT 



Now let us run the list over, 
Of men preceding Christopher, 
Who came before Columbus came, that laggard 
dull and slow ; 
The early Buddhist missionaries, 
Those rapt religious visionaries. 
Who thirteen hundred years ago discovered 
Mexico. 

An Irishman named Brendin 
(The list is never ending) 
He crossed the Sea of Darkness, crossed the wild, 
untravelled main. 
He thought that he would try a land 
Some miles away from Ireland; 
So he, twelve hundred years ago, discovered us 
again. 

Leif Ericson, the Norseman, 
A regular old sea-horseman. 
Who rode the waves like stallions, and couldn't 
endure the shore, 



A Mislaid Continent 95 

Five hundred years thereafter 
Said to his wife in laughter, 
" It's time to go and find, my dear, America once 
more." 

And so he went and found it, 
With the ocean all around it. 
And just where Brendin left it five hundred years 
before ; 
And then he cried, " Eureka ! 
I'm a most successful seeker ! " 
And then — went off and lost it, could not find 
it any more. 

They fought the sea, and crossed it. 
And found a world — and lost it ; 
Those pre-Columbian voyagers were absent-minded 
men. 
Their minds were so preoccupied, 
That when a continent they espied, 
They absently mislaid it, and it couldn't be found 
again. 

But Columbus when he found us 
Somehow kept his arm around us. 
For he knew he must be careful when he found 
a hemisphere ; 



96 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

And he knew just how to use it, 
And he didn't misplace and lose it, 
And mislay it in a corner where it couldn't be 
found next year. 

Like a pretty worthless locket 
He didn't put it in his pocket, 
And drop the New World through a hole that he'd 
forgot to mend ; 
But he kept his eye upon it, 
And he kept his finger on it. 
And he kept his grip upon it, and held on it to 
the end. 



Fate^s Frustrated Joke 97 



FATE'S FRUSTRATED JOKE 



Once Fate with an ironic zest 
Made man — a most delicious jest. 
" From out the void I man evoke," 
Said Fate, " my best and latest joke ! 
I stand him on two slender props. 
Two pins on which the creature hops. 
I'll watch the unbalanced gawky sprawl. 
Prong after prong behold him crawl ; 
And when a strong wind from the east 
Blows on this perpendicular beast, 
I'll laugh to see him topple o'er, 
And all the gazing gods shall roar! 

''This mite shall feed the lion's maw. 
And dangle on the tiger's paw. 
Shall be the sportive panther's prey. 
And flee from dragons night and day. 
This featherless bird of awkward mould 
Shall chatter through the winter's cold; 
No hair or wool to him I give, 
No turtle shell in which to live ; 
Nor can he, like the bear," said Fate, 



98 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

" Dig holes in which to hibernate. 
Out in the universe I fling 
This naked, helpless, shivering thing. 
Of all my jokes this is the best, 
This is my masterpiece of jest ! " 

But Fate in mixing man his brains 
Forgot to take the usual pains, 
Dropped in, and made a fearful muss, 
An extra scoop of phosphorus ; 
Then man, he slyly said, "You wait. 
And I will get the joke on Fate ! " 

He did not feed the lion's maw, 

Or dangle on the tiger's paw. 

But cut the lion into steak, 

And used his skin a coat to make. 

The whirlwind from the east might blow. 

But still it could not overthrow 

This featherless biped; for 'tis plain 

This extra phosphorus in his brain 

Was just enough upon each limb 

To hold him up and balance him. 

And so through all the years that com 3 

He keeps his equilibrium. 

And so this pronged and toppling thing 
Stood straight, and made himself a king ; 



Fate ^s Frustrated Joke 99 

This straddling biped did not fail 

To rule the elephant and whale, 

For even great Leviathan 

Accepts the sovereign sway of man. 

And sheltered safe from wounds and scars 

His thoughts went out beyond the stars, 

And travelled through Time's shoreless sea, 

And "wandered through eternity." 

And baffled Fate said, "Well, I see 

This fellow's got the joke on me ! " 

But let not pride soar forth too high. 
And gloat on our immensity. 
But think sometimes of what a flout 
And failure we had been without 
That slip of Fate in making us. 
That extra scoop of phosphorus ! 



loo Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



JVHEN WE WORKED OUR TAX OUT. 



Oh, our life was tough and tearful, and its toil 
was often fearful. 
And often we grew faint beneath the load ; 
But there came a glad vacation, and a sweet alle- 
viation. 
When we used to work our tax out on the road. 
When we used to work our tax out, then we felt 
the joys of leisure. 
And we felt no more the prick of labor's goad ; 
Then we shared the golden treasure of sweet rest 
in fullest measure — 
When we used to work our tax out on the road. 

There are sapient seers and sages who predict, in 
coming ages. 
Life's tragedy of labor will be o'er. 
And a glad, full-fledged millennium will leap on 
the proscenium. 
And we'll play, but never labor any more. 
But we look not in the future for that happy, 
halcyon hour 
When we'll throw off every burden, every load; 



When We Worked Our Tax Out loi 

For our Eden burst in flower, and we dozed in 
leisure's bower, 
When we used to work our tax out on the road. 

When we used to work our tax out ( if I let the 
bottom facts out), 
We had somnolent contentment and repose ; 
With no toil or work to cumber us, our rest was 
sweet and slumberous, 
And in deep, delicious dreaming did we doze. 
The drowsiness of languid rest o'er every man 
was creeping. 
And in a calm, serene content we all threw 
down our load ; 
Careless of life's wail and weeping, every blessed 
man was sleeping. 
When we used to work our tax out on the road. 



I02 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE MILKMAN'S TEAM 



A YEAR, an age, a century, seem crowded in one 
night, 

When a poor fellow cannot sleep, but simply longs 
for light ; 

I travel through a brookless land, along a black- 
ened way, 

A weary waste, without a flower, between the day 
and day. 

Along about the Fall of Troy the clock , strikes 

one, and then 
It waits till Caesar conquers Gaul before it strikes 

again ; 
When William masters England, then the slow 

old clock strikes three ; 
At four o'clock Columbus' ships have crossed 

the " ocean sea." 

And so the centuries drip on. I toss with weary 

heart. 
With every hour of the night five hundred years 

apart ; 



The Milkman 's Tea??t 



103 



Becalmed upon a stagnant pool, upon a waveless 
stream — 

Until I hear the rattle of our good old milk- 
man's team. 

The rattle of that milkman's team is like the 
bugle's cheer, 




That tells beleagured cities that a friendly host 
is near. 

The Ethiopian darkness has as yet no brighten- 
ing beam — 

But I know the morn is coming when I hear that 
milkman's team. 



He sits upon his milk-team, half awake and half 

adrowse. 
Lamenting the low price of milk, the lofty price 

of cows ; 



I04 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

He knows not with what dignity he sweeps along 

the way, — 
The herald of a sunrise hope, the harbinger of 

day. 

And I've learned to listen for him, through the 

darkest night's despair, 
For the glad auroral music of the hoof-beats of 

his mare. 
Then the black-haired night grows shamefaced, 

and he turns his gaze away 
From the hopeful, smiling features of the rosy 

Babe of Day. 

There are sages, wise, I doubt not, who believe 
the world's sad plight 

Is to wander, ever deeper, into blacker glooms 
of night ; 

Through the starless midnight shadows they can 
see no sunrise-gleam — 

But I listen for the rattle of the morning milk- 
man's team. 

Dark, sometimes, ah, dark and heavy, is the tired 

world's despair. 
But the glad, auroral music of the hoof-beats of 

his mare 



The Milkman 'j Team 1 05 

Any hour may smite the darkness — then we'll 

see the heavens astream 
With the sunrise light of morning, when we hear 

the milkman's team. 

Hark! hear ye not the rat-tat of his good mare 

through the night ? 
She is bringing morning with her, she is coming 

with the light ; 
And the shamefaced night of terror he shall turn 

his gaze away 
From the hopeful, smiling features of the rosy 

Babe of Day. 



io6 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE OX-TEAM 



I SIT upon my ox-team, calm, 

Beneath the lazy sky, 
And crawl contented through the land, 

And let the world go by. 
The thoughtful ox has learned to wait, 

And nervous impulse smother, 
And ponder long before he puts 

One foot before the other. 

And men with spanking teams pass by, 

And dash upon their way, 
As if it were their hope to find 

The world's end in a day; 
And men dash by in palace cars, 

On me dark frowns they cast, 
As the lightning-driven Present frowns 

Upon the slow old Past. 

What do they chase, these men of steam, 
Their smoke-flags wide unfurled, 

Pulled by the roaring fire-fiend. 
That shakes the reeling world t 



The Ox-Team 107 

What do ye seek, ye men of steam, 

So wild and mad you press ? 
Is this, is this the railroad line 

That leads to happiness ? 

And when youVe swept across the day, 

And dashed across the night, 
Is there some station through the hills 

Where men can find delight ? 
Ah, toward the Depot of Content, 

Where no red signals stream, 
I go by ox-team just as quick 

As you can go by steam. 



io8 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE PRISONER 



A man's skull is his lifelong jail; 

Behind its prison bars, 
From its eye-windows, doth the soul 

Peep at the earth and stars ; 
But unlike jails of wood or stone, 
Its prisoner ever dwells alone. 

Though through its front doors perfumed gales 
Are blown from glens of gladness. 

And through its back doors music strains 
Roll in in waves of madness, 

And though he hear and heed each tone, 

The prisoner still must dwell alone. 

Though past the windows of the jail 
Sweep scenes of solemn splendor. 

And through the doors float hymns of joy, 
Or dirges deep and tender, 

The prisoner hears the mirth and moan. 

But in his jail he dwells alone. 

No lover ever knows the soul 
He loves in all its sweetness ; 



The Prisoner 

The fullest love, however strong, 
Is marred by incompleteness ; 
No heart is ever fully known. 
The prisoner ever dwells alone. 



109 



Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE HILL ABOVE THE TOWN 



Upon a high hill, looking down 

Upon the towers of a town, 

A barefoot boy stood strong and fair, 

The breezes playing with his hair, 

And gazed upon the burnished spires, 

All glorified by sunset fires. 

And for the first time saw the gleams 

Of this great city of his dreams. 

For many days, 'neath sun and star, 
The sturdy lad had journeyed far. 
In winding ways, in meadows sweet, 
Where dripping dews baptized his feet 
O'er hillsides, where the sterile sod 
Bloomed Eden-like with goldenrod. 
And where the gladdening river flows — 
A poem on a page of prose — 
Through bowldered hills and uplands bare, 
Where silence reigns in earth and air. 

To tired mortals standing near 
The city's roar is harsh to hear ; 



The Hill Above the Town iii 

But when it lifts and sweeps away, 
And settles, like a music spray. 
It grows to anthems in the air, 
And falls in magic everywhere. 
The young boy hears it far away. 
Within his native fields at play ; 
And the strange magic of the strain 

Falls like a madness on his heart. 
Burns like a fever in his brain, — 

He says, " I must depart." 
He hears it in the western wind, 
A weird, strange music, undefined ; 
And in the sheltered meadow nooks 
It mingles with the song of brooks. 
The low of herds, the hum of bees, 
The rustling of the maple-trees. 

O'er woodland paths and sheltered dells 
That omnipresent music swells ; 
Then surges up within his breast 
The tumult of his first unrest. 
He hears it, and forgets to prize 
The sweetness in his mother's eyes ; 
The sterner but benignant grace 
That rests upon his father's face. 
He hears that music night and morn, 

And sweeter, stronger, does it grow; 
He hears it call him on and on. 



112 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

He cannot choose but go ! 
He leaves his boyhood's sheltered nest, 
Nor henceforth knows the name of rest. 

And so our barefoot boy was there, 
Drawn by that music in the air ; 
• And bravely stood he looking down 
Upon the towers of the town. 

And there were men within that town 

Of earth-encompassing renown ; 

But out beyond the wooded crest 

That hemmed his childhood like a nest. 

Beyond that clipped horizon's zone, 

The barefoot's name had never flown. 

And poverty within that town 

Kept many a fate-cursed mortal down ; 

But nowhere in its streets might be 

A man or child as poor as he. 

But still he stood above the town. 
In hopeful prescience gazing down ; 

A strong audacity of heart 
Sustained him, and he feared no foe — 

And part was ignorance, and part 
A wisdom higher than we know. 
And so he dared, with fearless mien. 
To stand and front the world, serene. 



The Hill Above the Toiim 1 1 3 

" There's nothing in that town," said he, 
"There's nothing there too great for me." 
He bravely smiled, and started down ; 

The light of hope was in his eye. 
" I'll be the mayor of that town," 

Said he, "before I die." 



114 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE HOME IN THE VALLEY 



I OWN my little home up here among the moun- 
tains hid ; 

The sky spreads down about it like a star-strewn 
coverlid. 

No noise that thunders through the world, and 

racks the souls of men 
Can desecrate the silence of my mountain-guarded 

glen. 

But here within the valley, in its deep seclusion 

curled, 
I behold the mighty pageant of the wonders of 

the world. 

Here the brooks from down the mountains through 

the verdured valleys flee, 
Drawn by their eternal madness to be mingled 

with the sea, 

As the soul of man in exile daily struggles in its 

flight 
Toward the far-off central ocean of the shoreless 

Infinite. 



The Home iii the Valley 115 

Here tall cities of enchantment, like the cities of 
the blest, 

Sunset capitals of cloudland, rise within the crim- 
son west. 

Here the miracle of morning, sunrise-crowned and 

dew-impearled, 
In its old eternal newness daily breaks upon the 

world. 

Here the pomp of all the seasons marches yearly 

through the glen. 
Bringing gifts of snow and flowers, and the fruits 

of earth to men. 

T am bosomed deep in beauty ; like the dewdrop 

in the rose, 
Let me fade into the silence of the fragrant night's 

repose. 

Let me live here in the valley, in its deep seclu- 
sion curled. 

And behold the mighty pageant of the wonders 
of the world. 

Restless are the feet that wander, restless are the 

hearts that roam ; 
Here God shows me all his glories : let me stay 

and rest at home. 







Don't hate your neighbor if his creed 

With your own doctrine fails to fit ; 

The chances that you both are wrong, 

You know, are well-nigh infinite. 

Don't fancy, mid a million worlds 

That fill the silent dome of night, 

The gleams of all pure truth converge 

Within the focus of your sight ; 

For this, my friend, is not the work for you : 

So leave all this for smaller men to do. 



Don't hate men when their hands are hard, 
And patches make their garments whole ; 
A man whose clothes are spick and span 
May wear big patches on his soul. 
Don't hate a man because his coat 
Does not conform to fashion's art; 
A man may wear a full-dress suit, 
And have a ragamufiin heart. 
This, my good friend, is not the work for you; 
So leave all this for smaller men to do. 
ii6 



J'Vor/i' for Small Men 



117 



Hate not the men of narrow scope, 

Of senses dull, whose brows recede, 

Whosa hearts are embryos; for you spring, 

My dainty friend, from just this breed. 

Be sure the years will lift them up ; 

They'll toil beneath the patient sky. 

And through the vista of long days 

Will all come forward by and by. 

Hate not these men; this is no work for you: 

So leave all this for smaller men to do. 

Despise not any man that lives, 

Alien or neighbor, near or far; 

Go out beneath the scornful stars, 

And see how very small you are. 

The world is large, and space is high 

That sweeps around our little ken ; 

But there's no space or time to spare 

In which to hate our fellow-men. 

And this, my friend, is not the work for you; 

Then leave all this for smaller men to do. 



1 18 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE BUSTER. 



His name was Alexander Bartholomew McKay ; 
That was his " really truly " name the youngster 

used to say. 
It was a name we hoped some day to which he'd 

lend a lustre ; 
But then his name for every day was simply this, — 
The Buster. 

The Buster was a cyclone dressed in a round- 
about, 

A whirlwind dressed in pantalettes, full steam, 
and just let out. 

And wheresoe'er the Buster blew did ruin always 
cluster ; 

Upon the chaos that he made we'd gaze and sigh, 
''The Buster!" 



A track of devastation always followed in his 

wake ; 
For everything the Buster touched the Buster he 

would break. 



The Buster no 

It took all Christian charity our outraged souls 

could muster 
To live in the same edifice where domiciled 
The Buster. 

All peace of mind departed when he entered at 

the door, 
For he sounded like a whirlwind rattling through 

a china store ; 
And like a charge of light dragoons, when led by 

General Custer, 
He came down on our bric-a-brac, and smashed it 

all — 

The Buster ! 

He'd hang the chairs upon the wall, the pictures 
on the floor, 

And hang the poodle upside down upon the cel- 
lar door; 

And slyly dress the baby up in gran'pa's linen 
duster. 

And hitch the goat in Nell's boudoir, and leave 
him there — 

The Buster ! 

And so throughout the neighborhood the people 

could not stay, 
In proportion as he flourished did the people 

move away ; 



I20 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

And sad departing caravans along the ways would 

cluster, 
Driven from their homes and firesides by the on- 



slaught of 



The Buster. 



And no one asked the Buster's health, for all 
men understood 

The Buster's chronic state of health was danger- 
ously good ; 

But one day did his cheek grow pale, his eye it 
lost its lustre. 

And we all gathered round his crib to see what 

ailed 

The Buster. 

And when the fever reached his brain he wan- 
dered in his mind, 

And played imaginary pranks, the same old reck- 
less kind. 

He sang his little rattling songs while all about 
did cluster ; 

They cheered his long way through the dark, the 
long way of 

The Buster. 

For he had started on that way — the mists grew 
cold and colder — 



The Buster 121 

And no strong man, no hero soul, e'er marched 

upon it bolder ; 
He'd heard the call which summons all to Fate's 

eternal muster. 
And with a smile upon his lips he answered back — 
The Buster. 

And so we watched the Buster, standing by with 

bated breath, 
As with sweet laughter in his eyes he neared 

the gates of death ; 
And the white mists of that dim shore did aD 

about him cluster ; 
And as he vanished in the mist we knew we 

loved 

The Buster. 

We held his hand that we had led through many 

a devious track. 
And wished that from the cold, cold fog that we 

might lead him back ; 
And when he said " Doo-by " to us we round his 

crib did cluster. 
And thought how much we loved our boy — how 
good he was — 

The Buster. 



Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



DEACON PETTIGREIV'S UNFORTUNATE PRAYER. 



I've been the most successful tramp this country 

ever see ; 
There ain't no tramp thet soshully stood higher 

up than me. 
Of all the tramps of this hull Ian' I wuz the 

special pet, 
An' I graced the highest sukkles of our most 

exclusive set. 

I alius got enough to chew, an' worked my game 

so shrewd. 
An' got so many duds to wear, that I wuz called 

The Dude ; 
An' Chris'mus time especially I bagged my 

highes' game. 
An' got new wardrobes for my back, new lustre 

for my fame. 

My specialty wuz deacons, an' a deacon, without 
doubt. 

If you know jest how to fetch him, will tremen- 
dously pan out; 



Deacon Pettigrew^s Uji fortunate Prayer 123 

An' I uster work him this way : I would go to 

him, you see, 
Sayin', " I'm a poor ol' sinner, Deacon ; won't you 

pray for me ? " 
An' thet would alius fetch him • he would kneel 

right down an' pray 



^^ Ia^ . . 




That this poor penitent might have his foul sins 

took away. 
An' I would sob an' shout, " Amen ! " an' w'en 

he'd closed his prayer 
I'd say I felt my sins wuz gone, my soul in good 

repair. 



124 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

This tickled him perdigiously. He'd feed me up 

with pie, 
An' kill the fatted turkey, an' I'd stay there an' 

live high. 
An' talk about how good I felt to lose my weight 

of sin. 
An' loudly shout " Hosannah ! " while I tucked 

the vittles in. 

Then I'd depart, an' leave him feelin' wholly sanc- 
tified. 

An ulster on my outer man, a puddin' warm in- 
side ; 

But soon my conscience 'ud bob up, I'd feel new 
weight of sin — 

Then I'd seek another deacon, jest to pray for 
me ag'in. 

But my Chris'mus business this year is a failure 

fair an' square. 
Because of Deacon Pettigrew's confounded blun- 

derin' prayer. 
I tol' him, jest like all the rest, thet I wuz foul 

with sin. 
An' would he kindly pray for me — an' he — he 

waded in. 

He started in, an' says, "O Lord," — an' I began 
to sob — 



Deacon Pettigrew's Unfortunate Prayer 125 

•'O Lord, I do beseech Thee, give this wretched 
tramp a job ; 

Thou that showest mercy to the infidel and 

Turk, 
Give this poor vagabond, I pray, a steady job of 
work." 

1 tell ye I wuz frightened, an' I never wuz so 

scat. 
I wuz 'feared the Lord would hear him, an' I up 

an' grabbed my hat. 
An' I scooted off like lightnin' ; I wuz frightened 

half to death. 
An' run four miles afore I dared to stop an' 

ketch my breath. 

An' so my Chris'mus business hez been sp'ilt 

beyond repair ; 
Though my sins are black as ever I can't trust 

no deacon's prayer. 
Life's corn hez all been shelled for me; there's 

nothin' left but cob. 
An' I've lost my faith in deacons, an' I'm 'fraid 

I'll git a job. 



126 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



IS LITTLE BOB TUCKED IN? 



"I've gotter go," she said, "an' see 

If little Bob's tucked in ; 
He'll git his death if he's uncovered 

In this col' storm an' win'." 
"Oh, little Bob's all right," said I, 

"You've bin to tuck him in 
Four times this evenin', an' I wouldn' 

Run 'way up-stairs ag'in." 
But Cynthy'd worry, fret, an' stew, 

An' raise a dreffle din ; 
"W'y, I mus' go ag'in," says she, 

"An' see if Bob's tucked in." 

" W'y, Cynthy, jest set down," I said, 

"An' git some good er life. 
A feller wants a chance to talk 

Some evenin's with his wife." 
Then she would take her knittin' out, 

Or work upon her spread. 
An' make b'lieve lissen, though she didn* 

Hear quarter w'at I said. 
She wouldn' much more than git set down 



Is Little Bob Tucked In ? 

Than jump right up ag'in, 
An' say, "I mus' run up an' see 
If little Bob's tucked in." 

Young Bob was alius on the jump, 

An' filled the house with din, 
An' kicked his quilts off ev'ry night 

Fast as she tucked him in. 
His laigs they went so fast all day, 

As long as it was light, 
An' got up speed so they couldn' stop. 

An' kep' a-goin' all night 
So Cynthy'd keep a-gittiii' up 

An' gittin' up ag'in ; 
" I've gotter look an' see," says she, 

"If little Bob's tucked in." 



She stood above the casket there, 

She bent to kiss his face, 
To pat a stragglin' curl of hair, 

Or fix a bit of lace. 
Her heart was breakin' with the thought 

That Bob, so round an' fat. 
So full of pranks an' fun, should sleep 

Within a crib like that; 
But still she'd fix his little robe. 

An' then come back ag'in. 



12) 



128 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

An' take a long, last look, an' see 
Her little Bob tucked in. 

That night a storm er snow came on, 

An' how the winds did rave ! 
The snow fell, like a coverlid, 

On little Bob's new grave. 
"I'm glad it snows," his mother said, 

" It looked so hard an' bare, 
So hard, so cruel, an' so bleak, 

I cried to leave him there. 
But God has sent the blessed snow, 

I think — an' 'tis no sin — 
That he has sent his snow to see 

That little Bob's tucked in." 



The Good Old Times 



29 



THE GOOD OLD TIMES 



What easy times our fathers had ! They lived a 

natural way ; 
To earn a half a dollar then they had the whole 

long day. 
Some fourteen hours did they have this meagre 

sum to win, 
The whole, long blessed day to earn a half a 

dollar in. 

How light their lot compared with ours ! We have 

to spurt and spin, 
We who are granted but six hours to earn twelve 

dollars in. 
Two hundred dollars in a year was all they had 

to earn. 
But we must earn five thousand — will those old 

days ne'er return 1 

They had twelve months to earn it, fourteen 

hours to the day ; 
But we have to have vacations, which steals half 

our time away. 



130 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

We've only six hours in the day, and eight months 

in the year, 
In which to earn five thousand — ah, too great 

the strain, I fear! 

They had so long to earn so little ; but our hard 
life is such 

That we have little time to work in order to earn 
much. 

How rich our fathers were — in time — how prodi- 
gal and rash! 

What vast amounts of time they gave for small 
amounts of cash. 

And how we sigh for those old days of moder- 
ate events, 

When one had fourteen hours in which to earn 
his fifty cents ; 

But now we work like galley slaves, and wreck 
and waste our powers 

For fifty cents in sixty seconds, — ah, what a life 
is ours! 



The Vision that Recedes 131 



THE VISION Th^T recedes 



Forward, on the same old journey, let us fol- 
low where she leads, 

Let us chase the beckoning glory of the Vision 
that Recedes. 

Still abides the same old magic in the waving 
of her hand, 

Motioning tow'rd higher regions of her misty table- 
land ; 

Still abides the same old purpose still to follow 

and draw nigh 
To the fulness of the glory of the promise in 

her eye. 

Down the vista of long valleys, through the brook- 
melodious meads. 

Up the thunder-blasted mountains, floats the Vision 
that Recedes. 

Onward through the tumbled gorges, onward till 
the quest is done. 

See ! she beckons to new empires tow'rd the set- 
ting of the sun. 



132 



Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



See ! her robes float in the distance, borne upon 
the onward breeze, 

Red with kisses of the sunset, white with blanch- 
ing of the seas. 








See! she beckons. We are coming! We will fol- 
low where she leads ; 

For we still believe the promise of the Vision 
that Recedes. 



The Visioji that Recedes 133 

We will follow where she leads us, through the 
wild and up the slope, 

Through the many tangled valleys to the table- 
land of hope. 

Through the many tangled valleys we will chase 

the Vision fair. 
Till we see the golden sunset mingled with her 

floating hair. 

Yonder, there, beyond the chasm, see her stand- 
ing on the crest 

Of that twilight-girdled mountain at the threshold 
of the west. 

We will follow without resting, we will follow and 

draw nigh 
To the fulness of the glory of the promise in 

her eye. 

There are higher ranges yonder, and she plumes 

her wings for flight 
Tow'rd those visionary mountains on the borders 

of the night. 

Tow'rd those visionary mountains let us follow 

where she leads, 
Let us chase the beckoning glory of the Vision 

that Recedes. 



134 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



UNCLE JED'S JOURNEY 



I NEVER grouted, never fussed, but lived here 

calm an' still ; 
For twenty year I lived here on the hill in Po- 

kumville. 
"Don't live here like a snail," said Jim, "within 

yer snail-shell curled ; 
I'll pay yer fare to go out West, an' let yer see 

the world." 

An' so I got on board the train, an' whirled off 

like a breeze ; 
But all I see upon the trip wuz dirt an' grass 

an' trees. 
See water, stones, an' sich-like things ; sometimes 

a brook an' hill. 
Sez I to Jim, "All these ere things I see in 

Pokumville." 

We stopped to see Niagara Falls, thet makes so 

much loud talk, 
An' we see a mess er water kinder tumblin' from 

a rock. 



Uncle Jed V Journey 135 

" If you spill water from a spoon," sez I to Jim, 

sez I, 
" 'Tis 'zackly the same principul " — an' Jim he 

couldn' deny. 

An' we crossed the Rocky Mountains, Jim said, 

" I call this grand." 
"They're nothin'," sez I, "but great hunks of 

rock an' dirt an' sand." 
An' we come to the Pacific, an' it made Jim look 

perfound ; 
But I sez, " I don't see nothin' but some water 

sloshin' round." 

An' we went to sev'rul cities — there wuz nothin' 

there to see 
But jest er mess er houses, an' some folks like 

you an' me. 
An' we come into Chicago. Sez Jim, " How's 

this for high "i " 
Sez I, "It's jest like Pokumville — the same ol 

thing," sez I. 



136 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE ORIGIN OF SIN 



He talked about the origin 

Of sin ; 
But present sin, I must confess, 
He never tried to render less. 
But used to add, so people talk, 
His share unto the general stock — 
But grieved about the origin 

Of sin. 

He mourned about the origin 

Of sin ; 
But never struggled very long 
To rout contemporaneous wrong. 
And never lost his sleep, they say. 
About the evils of to-day — 
But wept about the origin 

Of sin. 

He sighed about the origin 

Of sin ; 
But showed no fear you could detect 
About its ultimate effect ; 



The Origin of Si?i 

He deemed it best to use no force, 
But let it run its natural course — 
But moaned about the origin 
Of sin. 



137 



138 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE SOULS SPRING CLEANING 



Yes, clean yer house, an' clean yer shed. 

An' clean yer barn in ev'ry part; 
But brush the cobwebs from yer head. 

An' sweep the snow-bank from yer heart. 
Yes' w'en spring cleanin' comes aroun' 

Bring forth the duster an' the broom, 
But rake yer fogy notions down, 

An' sweep yer dusty soul of gloom. 

Sweep ol' idees out with the dust. 

An' dress yer soul in newer style ; 
Scrape from yer min' its wornout crust, 

An' dump it in the rubbish pile. 
Sweep out the hates that burn an' smart, 

Bring in new loves serene an' pure, 
Aroun' the herthstone of the heart 

Place modern styles of furniture. 

Clean out yer morril cubby-holes. 

Sweep out the dirt, scrape off the scum ; 

'Tis cleanin' time for healthy souls — 
Git up an' dust ! The spring hez come I 



The SouVs Spring Cleafiing 139 

Clean out the corners of the brain, 

Bear down with scrubbin'-brush an' soap, 

An' dump ol' Fear into the rain, 

An' dust a cozy chair for Hope. \ 

Clean out the brain's deep rubbish-hole, 

Soak ev'ry cranny, great an' small, 
An' in the front room of the soul 

Hang pootier picturs on the wall. 
Scrub up the winders of the mind, 

Clean up, an' let the spring begin ; 
Swing open wide the dusty blind, 

An' let the April sunshine in. 

Plant flowers in the soul's front yard. 

Set out new shade an' blossom trees, 
An' let the soul once froze an' hard 

Sprout crocuses of new idees. 
Yes, clean yer house, an' clean yer shed. 

An' clean yer barn in ev'ry part ; 
But brush the cobwebs from yer head. 

An' sweep the snow-banks from yer heart ! 



I40 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE YOUNG MUSICIAN 



Jim warn't no good to fish and shoot, 

But only jest to toot an' toot. 

He couldn' play tag, an' couldn' play ball ; 

He jest could toot, an' that wuz all. 

He used to toot upon the fife, 

Till we grew tired of our life. 

For hours he would set an' set. 

An' toot upon an ol' cornet. 

Upon a bugle, fife, or floot, — 

His life wuz one etarnal toot 



Wen he came in, the rooms grew bare ; 

He'd toot, an' solitude wuz there. 

Out to the barn we all 'ud fly, 

An' hanker for a chance to die. — 

All 'cept his little sister Flo, 

An' she warn't big enough to know. 

She uster stay for half a day, 

An' lissen to the terror play; 

But she warn't very hard to suit. 

She said, " Me 'ike to hear oo toot." 



The Young Musician 141 

But Jim he tooted day by day, 

Until the neighbors moved away, 

Until the little trustful Flo 

Said, " Jim, w'at make e neighbors go ? " 

Jim choked a sob, an' said, " They say 

Thet I have tooted 'em away. 

I can't do nothin' thet'll soot ; 

I'm good for nothin' but to toot." 

" If the whole worl' should go," said Flo, 

" Oo toot for me ; we'll 'et 'em go." 

An' w'en Jim grew to quite a lad, 

An' moved away, we all wuz glad, 

An' every one wuz filled with glee, — 

A sorter gen'l jubilee. 

An' there wuz some purposed, they say. 

To hev a firework display. 

" You're all great, big, mean brutes," said Flo, 

''You're great, big brutes to treat him so. 

Shoot up your rockets in the sky. 

But my Jim's fame'U shoot ez high ! " 

Now w'en there's music in a man, 
Bimeby the worl' will un'erstan' ; 
So Jim, dressed in a bobtail soot. 
Brought out the worl' to hear him toot. 
They said heaven's music filled his fife. 
An anthem frum the deeps er life ; 



142 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

Their souls wuz filled an' overawed, 
Jest like w'en Moses talked 'ith God. 
An' this young ornery tooter Jim, 
They said, played like a seraphim. 

He'd toot. They heerd the battle boom 

Of armies marchin' to their doom ; 

An' then they'd hear the thunderous knocks 

Of wreck-strewn oceans on the rocks ; 

An' then he'd toot, an' all wuz dumb 

Ez if eternity had come, — 

So still thet if you dropped a pin 

'Twould sound ez if the earth caved in ; 

Then all the stars 'ud sing for joy. 

Like w'en ol' Adam wuz a boy. 

He'd toot ag'in — an awful clash, 

Ez if the nations went to smash. 

As if within the upper air 

The angels fit with devils there ; 

An' then a strain of wil' delight — 

They knowed the angels w^on the fight ; 

They knowed no soul wuz left alone. 

An' God wuz still upon his throne ! 

An' jest to think that this wuz ///;;/, 

Thet everlastin' tooter, Jim ! 

They went an' tol' the news to Flo ; 

She simply said, " I tol' yer so ! " 



Uncle Seth on Kings 143 



UNCLE SETH ON KINGS 



Them kings in Europe over there are settin' on 

their thrones, 
Their thrones built on the necks of men for their 

foundation-stones ; 
But trod-on men, I'm glad to say, have learned to 

squirm an' creep, 
They're wigglin' ; soon you'll see them thrones 

come tumblin' in a heap. 

" Support my soldiers," says them kings, " my 

men who shoot an' hack ; " 
Till now each peasant carries roun' a soldier on 

his back. 
But that poor peasant's growin' wise; there's fire 

in his blood. 
Just wait a bit ; you'll see him dump that soldier 

in the mud. 

" There's men across that bound'ry line that you 

must go an' kill ; 
Go shoot 'em for us," says them kings, "go stab 

'em ; 'tis our will." 



144 



Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



" Wall, kings," bimeby them men will say, " we 

don't observe no sign 
Thet men are vipers to be killed across that 

bound'ry line. 

" If you want butchers to kill beeves, a bargain 
might be made ; 




If you want butchers to kill men, w'y, that ar 

ain't our trade. 
If you want blood by hogsheadsful, don't seek it 

at our store ; 
For we ain't killin' feller-men an' brothers any 

more." 



Wall, kings, this ain't the kin' er talk to soothe 
a royal ear, 



Uncle Seth on Ki?igs 145 

But jest erbout the kin' er stuff thet you hev got 

ter hear ; 
For we've about made up our minds to lay you 

on the shelf, 
For each man now hez come to know thet he's 

a king himself. 

The kin' er king that Europe wi^nts won't wear 
no jewel crown. 

An' he is comin' w'en your thrones hev all been 
rattled down. 

He'll wear a hat like other men, an' set on a 
plain chair ; 

But he will be a king er men, an' rule 'em every- 
where. 

Not w'at he wears outside his head will be his 

kingly pride ; 
Not w'at he wears outside his head, but w'at he 

wears inside. 
He'll want no throne ; a king er men can alius 

rule his own 
If he sets upon a nail-kaig, jest as well as on a 

throne. 

He'll say, this king that's comin', to his soldiers 

old an' new, 
" Break ranks, my frien's ; disband ; go home ; 

ain't no more work for you. 



146 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

I legalize no more the art of takin' people's 

lives. 
Your job hez gone ; break ranks ; disband ; go 

home an' see your wives, 

"An' beat your sword-blades into scythes. Go 

home an' cut your grain ; 
Make green with corn an' w'ite with wheat the 

blood-red battle plain. 
Though mowin' oats an' mowin' grass is tiresome 

work, but then, 
'Tis more respectable an' clean than mowin' 

feller-men." 

This is the kin' er king we want ; the ol' style 

breed of kings, 
W'y, they hev bungled long enough, an' made 

a botch of things. 
This king is comin' by an' by, an' let the roun' 

sky ring, 
" Hip, hip, hooray ! hip, hip, hooray ! God save, 

God save the king!" 



The Misrepresentatiofi of Erastus Poog 147 



THE MISREPRESENTATION OF ERASTUS 
POOG 



The interviewer feller from the Pokiimville Gazette 

Come down las' year to see me, an' I hain't forgot 
it yet; 

An' he poked right in to see me, with his smooth 
an' oily face, 

An' asked for my opinyins on the Wilson Dog- 
Fight Case. 

He said he wished to git the news of repersen- 

tertive men, 

Of the intellechul leaders an' the soshul upper 
ten ; 

Of men of broad capasserty an' mental pedigree. 

An' intellechul calibre — an' so he come to me. 

So I sut my intellechuals immejitly to work ; 
'Tain't in keepin' with my natur' any mental job 

to shirk. 
I'm proud to say thet work like this I do with 

ease and grace — 
So I expounded unto him the Wilson Dog-Fight 

Case. 



148 



Whilfs frovi Wild Meadows 



I give er explernation thet wuz pretty middlin' neat, 
An' worked the case out p'int by p'int, an' made 

the job complete ; 
An' the reporter said to me, jest 'fore he left my 

place, 
" You've gi'n the best sy-nopsis of the Wilson 

Dog-Fight Case. 




Nex' day but one they published what they called 
AN INTEPvVIEW 

WITH THE INTELLECHUL LEADER OF OL' DEESTRIC' 
NUMBER TWO. 

ERASTUS poog's OPINYINS, 

tol' with elerkunce an' grace, of the famous 

CONTERVERSY of the WILSON DOG-FIGHT CASE. 



The Misrepresentation of Erastus Poog 149 

But, O Good Lord ! O Mercy ! It made me bile 

to see 
How wilfully the lying sheet misrepersented me ; 
For " Mr. Poog," the paper said, " in his last 

summin' up. 
Inclines to give the pref'rence to Cornelius Doo- 

ley's pup." 

Cornelius Dooley's terrier ! Thet liar heerd me 
say. 

Flat footed, thet Dan Wilson's dog fit best, an' 
won the day. 

Through North and South Ameriky the wretched 
lie will hum, 

The European nations, an' the hull of Christen- 
dom. 

An' so I Stan' before the worl', maliciously held 

up. 
As a backer and admirer of Cornelius Dooley's 

pup. 
I Stan' there huggin' thet ar dog 'fore ev'ry Ian' 

an' clime. 
An' I'll git into hist'ry so, an' stan' there for all 

time. 

So all the nations er this worl' all comin' time, 
yer see, 



150 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

Will git a wrong conception an' false estermunt 

er me. 
My repertation hitherto hez been unushul good, 
But I'll go into history, " The Great Misunder- 
stood." 

An' sich a misconception — w'y, it never can be 

tor. 

How it wears upon the feelin's of an intellechul 

soul 
To go down to futur' ages booked in the wrong 

catalogue, 
Travellin' down through hist'ry's visters tangled 

up with Dooley's dog. 



The Sojigless Poet 151 



THE SONG LESS POET 



"The world grows old," said the Angel of souls, 

" And faints in its despair ; 
I will cheer its age with the spirit of youth — 

I will send a poet there. 

" I will smite its gloom with the joy of song, 

And make it glad again." 
Then a babe was born in a poor man's home, 

And a poet had come to men. 

And he wandered away from his mother's knee, 

And played in his father's field ; 
And the Angel of souls he waited long 

To see his soul revealed. 

And there came a day when the careless youth 
Heard the Voice of wondrous tone — 

The Voice that came from the heart of the world, 
And spoke to his heart alone. 

Then the Angel of souls bent toward the world, 

And listened and listened again 
With a hungry ear for the wise, strong words 

Of the songs of the poet of men. 



152 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

But the poet he said, " I am foolish and young, 

My words are weak and few ; 
I will learn the songs of the wise old bards 

Who sang when the world was new." 

But the Voice within cried, " Speak to men 

The words I give to say; 
Fear not, but speak the words of the Voice," — 

But the poet answered, " Nay. 

" I will learn," he said, " of the bards of the 
past 
Who trod the young earth's sod 
When the earth was nearer the heaven than 
now. 
And the prophets talked with God." 

"Think not," said the Voice, "that the God that 
filled 

The souls of the bards of yore. 
Now leaves the world to his underlings. 

And visits his earth no more." 

"But my words are weak," the poet said; 

" I dare not speak alone. 
I must feed my soul on the songs of the past, 

Ere I dare to sing my own. 



The Songless Poet 153 

"I will learn of the mighty bards of the past, 

Of the ages far and dim " — 
And the awful tones of the Voice within 

Spake never again to him. 

But he filled his soul with the bards of the past : 

They thrilled him o'er and o'er ; 
But the sad old world rolled on in its gloom, 

For a poet came no more. 

He died ; and the song that was in him died. 

Unreached his starry goals ; 
And his soul that had failed of its mighty work 

Went up to the Angel of souls. 

And the soul stood naked before that gaze 

Of fierce, consuming ire ; 
And the scorn in the look of the Angel of souls 

Burned into its depths like fire. 

" Ere a bard shall sing as God made thee to 
sing, 

The earth in grief and tears 
Must bide its time," said the Angel of souls, 

"And wait for a thousand years." 



154 Whiffs froin Wild Meadows 



THE PERFECT MAN, BUT 



Jim Bucks was cut out on the plan 
By which they cut the perfect man ; 
Was cut by Nature's neatest die, 
Such as they cut out Adam by; 
And his design, I'd have you know, 
Was perfect — for he told me so. 

And all the reason that Jim Bucks, 

His life long, "didn't amount to shucks," 

Was 'cause he couldn't get on the track, 

And other people held him back. 

Ah, he had gained the door of fame, 

And on its door-plate writ his name, 

And down the corridors of time 

With bass-drum music marched sublime, 

Had not his friends — a jealous pack — 

His coat-tails seized, and pulled him back 

At Fate's express department he 

Was tagged for immortality. 

But Envy's dog — a vicious pup — 

Stole in and chewed his label up ; 

And so he took no fast express, 

But stayed there, labelled, " No Address." 



The Perfect Man, But— 155 

Now all good folks prepare to wail, 
And listen to his troublous tale, 
The saddest since this world began — 
The failure of the perfect man. 

When Jim was young, and lived in Maine, 
An epic sprouted in his brain. 
So grand and perfect and complete, 
'Twould crowd John Milton off his seat ; 
But his illiterate mother, when 
Her gifted son would seize the pen. 
And his wild poet-eye would roll 
In the mad tumult of his soul. 
Would ask him if he'd fed the hog. 
And send him out to chain the dog; 
To hold the unfilial setting hen 
Upon her half-hatched eggs again ; 
To scare the kitten from the sink. 
Or drive the turkeys out to drink, — 
And so John Milton on his throne. 
Without a rival, sat alone. 

Jim nursed grand projects in his head. 
And told his wife, when he was wed, 
That he'd change cotton into silk. 
And turn cold water into milk. 
His bride, blunt, practical, and fat. 
Said, "Any milkman can do that." 



156 



Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



And afterward, when Jim grew bold, 
And tried to change red sand to gold. 
Just as the sand began to turn, 
His wife would call him down to churn. 
And when he turned a medicine-mixer. 




And hunted for a life-elixir. 

And worked for two whole years upon 

"Bucks' Patent New Catholicon," 

Just as he stood upon the high, 

Sweet climax of discovery, 

His wife made this transcendent soul 

Come down to fetch a hod of coal ; 



The Perfect Man, But — 157 

To help her while she drove the flies, 
Or chop the mince-meat for her pies. 
And so the dying world goes on 
Without "Bucks' New Catholicon." 

Jim might have steered the Ship of State 

Between the hidden snags of fate, 

And brought her out, unharmed and free, 

On destiny's uncharted sea. 

There through the halcyon waves to drift ; 

But Jim had cinders he must sift. 

And listening senates Jim might sway, 

Had he no butcher's bill to pay; 

And Jim, unaided and alone. 

Might swim through slaughter to a throne, 

And shift the folds of history's scene. 

And make Napoleon look green. 

And rule o'er distant seas and shores. 

If he didn't have to do his chores. 

And Jim might be time's grandest bard 

If he didn't have to clean the yard, 

And watch where the brown pullet lays. 

And stretch the line on washing-days. 

And doubtless Jim might paint as well 

As Rubens or as Raphael ; 

Or make the living marble grow 

To shapes as grand as Angelo ; 

Or lead a mighty host, like Grant ; 



158 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

Or write philosophy, like Kant; 
Or tread the tragic stage, forsooth, 
As well as Irving or as Booth, — 
If he didn't have to sweep the shed, 
And pack his poodles off to bed. 

And I bear witness unto you 
That all these things are strictly true ; 
The truth of all these things I know, - 
-^ know it — for Jim told me so. 



Two Calves 159 



TWO CALVES 



" Perhaps you know better than I," said Regi- 
nald Roosevelt Steuben 

To John Hayseed of Grasstown Four Corners, 
whom he thought very much of a " Reuben." 

" But know you, Sir Rusticus, know that I have 
attended two colleges, 

And I am proficient and primed in all of the isms 
and ologies." 

Said john Hayseed of Grasstown Four Corners: 

" Sho ! then you hev bin to tew colleges ? 
I s'pose, then, your head-piece is crammed with a 

tarnal assortment er knowledges ? 
You put me in mind of a calf thet belonged to 

Squire Abraham Gleason, 
Who hed all the milk from tew cows, and et the 

hull mess all the season." 

" Why do I remind you of him ? " asked the youth 

with a rising inflection. 
"He wuz a tremendous large caff — biggest caff 

ever raised in this section." 



i6o Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE BOOK-AGENT 



I AM not deaf, my fellow-man, 

And I can hear you shout ; 
Your words are audible enough, 

'' Don't want your book ! Get out ! " 
Don't want my book ! It cannot be ; 

There's some mistake, forsooth. 
Don't want my great " Compendium 

Of Universal Truth ! " 

Oh, I can plainly understand 

How some dull-minded thing 
Might, scorn my book ; but you ! but you ! 

An intellectual king ! 
A mammoth-minded man like you. 

When once the book is bought, 
Will revel in its intellect, 

And wallow in its thought ! 

Why, all your board of selectmen 
Have bought the book ; and they. 

Why they all said, " Be sure to call 
On Mr. John C. Ray. 



21ie Book -Agent i6i 



We cannot understand it all," 

Said they, " but Ray knows beans ; 

When John C. Ray has read that book 
He'll tell us what it means." 

On mediocre men for sales 

I place no firm reliance ; 
This book was written and designed 

For intellectual giants ; 
For men whose skull-caps bulge with brains. 

Who know a thing or two ; 
For men of towering intellect — 

And so I've called on you. 

You'll take the book ? I knew you would — ■ 

Of course you'll want the best ; 
You'll want morocco back, gilt top. 

One that will stand the test. 
I'm glad I've met you, Mr. Ray; 

Though ignorant and untaught, 
I love to meet a man of brains, 

Of intellect and thought. 



1 62 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE HEN-FEVER OF JED IVATSON 



After it ! follow it ! 
Follow the gleam ! " 



Tennyson, 



Jed Watson, he was after it ; he followed up 
the gleam ; 

He chased the gorgeous vision of his life's per- 
petual dream. 

He had a faith that urged him on through all 
life's wastes and fens, 

That he could build a fortune up by simply rais- 
ing hens. 

Jed watched his growing pullets, and there came 

a vision fair 
Of palaces with porticos expanding in the air ; 
And those cloud-bannered palaces, reared not of 

stones or bricks, 
Were built of all the unlaid eggs of all his un- 

hatched chicks. 

He preached the poultry gospel unto all men 
everywhere ; 



The He?! -Fever of Jed Watson 163 

His wife said he'd permit a hen to lay eggs in 

his hair. 
From morning, when the great red sun rose from 

the ocean foam, 
He'd sit and theorize on hens until the cows 

came home. 

Hens dangled from his heart-strings, and made 

nests in his brain, 
And great gigantic hencoops were his palaces in 

Spain ; 
And all his active intellect was focussed like a 

lens 
Upon the all-absorbing theme of hens, and only 

hens. 

"One hin will lay twelve hundred aigs, I calker- 

late," said Jed, 
" An' hatch a thousan' chickens that'll mourn her 

w'en she's dead. 
These chicks will raise a million more, an' hev a 

few to spare ; 
I'll sell 'em for a dollar each — and I'm a mil- 

lionnaire." 

So Jed he built a hen-house that was after his 

own heart. 
Though his own house in which he lived was 

falling all apart ; 



[64 



Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



He gave his pullets dainties all, of corn and malt 

and meat, 
While his own wife and his two boys had plain 

salt pork to eat. 

He went to all the poultry shows, and travelled 
here and there, 




And put a mortgage on his farm to pay his rail- 
road fare, 

And went to hen conventions ; and he talked to 
poultry men 

On "The Boundless Possibilities of the Devel- 
oped Hen." 



So Jed he followed after it; he followed up the 

gleam. 
And chased his hen millennium down the vista 

of his dream. 



The Hen -Fever of Jed Watson 165 

" The hin-house door's the way to wealth," said 
he ; " no way is surer." 

But every extra hen he owned made him a dol- 
lar poorer. 

His hens would not forget to eat, but oft forgot 
to lay; 

And if they laid, forgot to hatch — a hen's pro- 
voking way. 

For hens are haughty as the gods, and whimsical 
as men, 

And in ten billion leagues of hens there's not one 
perfect hen. 

But Jed he followed after it, he followed up the 

gleam : 
For every hen that clucked and scratched was 

perfect in his dream. 
His dream-hens all were perfect hens, but full of 

faults his real — 
There is a marked discrepancy 'twixt actual and 

ideal. 

So poor Jed lived a bankrupt life, and died a 

debtor slave ; 
And then his hens went out and scratched the 

flowers from off his grave. 
Ah, myriads of delusions vain have grown since 

time began ! 



1 66 Whiffs from Wild Meadozvs 

But the hen-dream is the vainest dream of all 
the dreams of man. 

But we all follow after it, we follow up the gleam ; 

And we all raise expensive hens, all dream the 
sweet hen-dream. 

If my philosophy is true, no man was ever made 

Who has not speculated some in this same poul- 
try trade. 



Heresy i?t Pokiimville 167 



HERESY IN POKUMyiLLE 



I HAD for neighbors Silas Bean 

Erastus Gove, an' William Smith, 
John Andrew Pratt, Horatio Dean, 

But no one to talk Bible with. 
For Silas Bean would talk of hops, 

Erastus Gove wuz strong on cows, 
An' William Smith on onion crops, 

An' Pratt an' Dean on shotes an' sows. 
But Bean, Gove, Pratt, or Dean, or Smith - 
Not one could I talk Bible with. 



For w'en I tried to talk free-will 

With Dean or with John Andrew Pratt, 
They'd talk about the kind of swill 

Was best to make a lean hog fat. 
An' w'en I labored to arouse 

Some intress in predestination, 
An' talk foreknowledge, they'd talk cows, 

An' hop an' onion cultivation. 
A sordid, worl'ly set, you see. 
An' not companyins fit for me. 



1 68 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

An' how all things wuz foreordained, 

An' how the human will wuz free, 
They didn't seem to want explained, 

An' never listened much to me. 
An' w'en my argiment bored keen, 

Way into the real Scriptur's pith, 
John Andrew Pratt would wink at Dean, 

An' Dean would wink at William Smith, 
An' 'Rastus Gove an' Silas Bean 
Would jest keep silent an' look green. 

But 'twas a glorious day an' good, 

A sweet an' blessed day fer me, 
W'en moved into our neighborhood 

Melchizedek Abraham McGee. 
With Scriptur' zeal his soul was het ; 

An' 'twas an edifyin' sight 
To see us set an' set an' set. 

An' jest talk Scriptur' day an' night — 
Begin with Moses, an' keep on 
Way down to Peter, Jude, an' John. 

We grew together, he an' I, 

An' might hev clung together yit, 

But on a verse in Malachi 
We made an everlastin' split. 

I pleaded — tol' him 'twas absurd. 
The way of his interpertation ; 



Heresy in Pokumville 169 

He said the way I wrenched God's Word 

Called for his sternest condemnation ; 
An' said I'd started on the path 
Thet leads to everlastin' wrath. 

I tried to push his error by, 

An' pluck it from him limb by limb, 
An' crush his wicked heresy, 

An' make an orthodox of him. 
He said my soul " wuz reperbate, 

A Pagan with no gleam of light, 
Thet walked in unregenerate 

An' dark an' sakerligious night." 
This got me riled; I waded in. 

An' soundly thrashed thet man of sin. 

An' hard I smote him, hip an' thigh. 

He squirmed about and raised a rumpus; 
But I — I knocked his heresy 

To all directions of the compass. 
As Michael fit the Dragon, I 

Laid on, an' didn't withhold my hand — 
A knuckle argiment, whereby 

I made the Pagan understand. 
I beat him fair an' square. Next day 
In contrite shame he moved away.' 

Now I've for neighbors Silas Bean, 
Erastus Gove, an' William Smith, 



lyo Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

John Andrew Pratt, Horatio Dean, 
But no one to talk Bible with. 

But with a thirst beyond control, 
A hunger growin' more an' more, 

I long for some congenial soul 
To lay my Scriptur' views afore. 

But Bean, Gove, Pratt, or Dean, or Smith 

Not one can I talk Bible with. 



Wearing His Dad's OV Clo'es 171 



WEARWG HIS DAD'S OV CLO'ES 



" Yes, I," said Jim, " shall leave this hole — 

No place for men of talent here. 
I don't propose to squeeze my soul 

Down into such a narrow sphere ; 
And I propose to make my pile, 

A good round fortune, fair and square. 
And after I shall once strike ile, 

I'll grow into a millionaire. 
Now, brother Tom, where will you roam ? 

And what great work do you propose ? " 
"Well I," said Tom, "will stay to home. 

And wear my dad's ol' clo'es." 

"Now I," said Sam, "don't care for wealth; 

A banker's life is far too tame ; 
But, bless me ! if I have my health 

I'll clamber up the heights of fame. 
Our statesmen are degenerate, 

A poor, debilitated crew ; 
But I propose to take the state. 

And renovate it through and through; 
To rule as Caesar did in Rome, 



172 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

That is the end that I propose." 
"Well, I," said Tom, "will stay to home, 
And wear my dad's ol' clo'es." 

"Now I," said Bill, "propose to rear 

A name to permanently endure. 
And gain my province square and clear 

Within the realm of literature. 
Just look at Shakespeare now, and note 

How greatly grand he looms, and tall, 
And just because he simply wrote 

A lot of writings — that is all. 
And so to write a mighty tome 

Of thought, like him, do I propose." 
"Well I," said Tom, "will stay to home, 

And wear my dad's ol' clo'es." 

Jim went away, and started fair, 

With courage strong and almost rash, 
To make a mighty millionaire ; 

But then he couldn't collect the cash. 
And Sam had been a statesman grand. 

And ruled where'er our banner floats — 
He would have been, you understand, 

But then he couldn't secure the votes. 
With votes and cash they might have clomb 

To heights of wealth and fame, who knows ? 
But Tom just simply stayed at home. 

And wore his dad's ol' clo'es. 



Wearing His Dad's OV CIo'cs 173 

And Bill, he might have written thoughts 

To make old Shakespeare's pale and sink, 
And doubtless would have written lots 

If he'd had any thoughts to think. 
So Jim and Sam and Bill came back 

To their old home, a wan and thin, 
A ragged, hungry-looking pack; 

And well-fed Tom, he let 'em in. 
And now all three no longer roam ; 

They live on Tom in sweet repose. 
All three contented stay at home. 

And all wear Tom's ol' clo'es. 



174 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



BACK-YARD PHILOSOPHER 



There was a sage — such men are rare — 

Who owned a small back yard, 
Who looked upon no millionaire 

With any great regard. 
He stayed within his back yard curled, 

And let mankind go by. 
Nor wandered up and down the world 

In search of novelty. 

A traveller, who'd put a belt 

Around the planet's girth. 
And roamed so far and wide he felt 

His home was all the earth ; 
A travel-stained cosmopolite. 

When worn by wanderings hard. 
In his migrations chanced to light 

Within this sage's yard. 

He told the sage of seas he'd sailed, 

Through storms and whirlpools dreaded ; 

Of lofty mountains he had scaled, 
Of forests he had threaded ; 



A Back -Yard Philosopher 175 

Of restful days in vales of spice, 

Where perfumed breezes blow ; 
Of polar jaunts o'er seas of ice, 

And herbless wastes of snow. 



" And now, my quiet friend," said he, 

" How is it you're resigned 
To live here 'neath this apple-tree 

With a contented mind ? " 
"Why, my back yard," he made reply. 

Half serious and half gay, 
" It ' wanders through eternity,' 

And spans the Milky Way. 

" For he who knows his yard, my friend 

And comprehends it right. 
Knows the wide earth, from end to end, 

A true cosmopolite. 
The geologic periods 

Have built my yard for me, 
A rich black soil that blooms and buds 

From nature's old debris. 

" The slime of prehistoric seas ; 

The silt that nature's fountains 
Bore down through long eternities. 

From prehistoric mountains ; 



176 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

The inter-stellar sediment 

From unborn planets drifted, — 

Are all within my back yard blent, 
And sorted, mixed, and sifted. 



" The lime from some old saurian's bones 

Now feeds my young tomatoes ; 
The dust of old volcanic stones 

Makes sweet my new potatoes ; 
My parsnips draw their vital force. 

My grapes their luscious blood. 
From space beyond the solar course. 

And time beyond the Flood. 

" My back-yard garden looks inert, 
And many yards bloom brighter ; 

But still its strong dynamic dirt 

• Is powerful as nitre. 

The long result of cosmic toil, 
Through nature's patient stages, 

Has concentrated in its soil 
The potency of ages. 

"The sunrise and the sunset seas, 
That make the old earth new, 

Are cisterns whence my cabbages 
Draw their supplies of dew ; 



A Back -Yard Philosopher 177 

To light my yard with blossom smiles, 
And make my beans climb higher, 

The sun through ninety million miles 
Sends down his shafts of fire. 

" The rose draws fragrance from afar. 

And in a flowery focus 
Are virtues drawn from every star, 

Converging in this crocus. 
While here among my plants and trees 

I stand the blue sky under, 
I'm compassed round with mysteries, 

And tabernacled in wonder. 

"And, while I watch a flower-bell 

To springtime's air unfurled, 
I face the great insoluble 

Old riddle of the world. 
While in my yard I feel the spells 

That come from earth and sky, 
I'm bosomed deep in miracles. 

And lapped in mystery. 

"Though rooted in my place of birth, 

I have no wings to fly, 
My roots encircle all the earth, 

My branches fill the sky." 



178 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

"Ah," said the traveller, "though I span 
The world from here to Siam, 

You are a wider-travelled man — 
Indeed you are — than I am. 



The Fat Man 179 



THE FAT MAN 



" Let me have men about me that are fat." 

Julius Caesar, Aci /., Scene u. 



I SING the fat man ; and I deem 

A man's intrinsic worth 
Is gauged by his rotundity — 

Proportionate to his girth. 
The fat man, darling child of fate, 

Who in serene repose 
Doth nature's stores assimilate, 

And turn to adipose, 
Who from the boundless universe, 

As he's a right to do. 
Absorbs a corporosity 

Commensurate thereto. 

" Let me have men about me," said 
Great Caesar, " that are fat ; " 

And Julius Caesar, you'll admit, 
He knew "where he was at." 

The fat man, everybody knows, 
Doth bask in virtue's smile ; 

For as he grows in adipose 



ic»o 



Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



He doth decrease in guile. 
And 'tis my creed, though cynics carp 
And cavil much thereat, 




No man can be entirely good 
Till he is fairly fat. 



No sour cynic is this man, 
No misanthropic churl, 



The Fat Man i8i 

And his wide, manly bosom bears 

The light heart of a girl. 
Of nature's bounty he partakes, 

With gratitude and zest, 
And in her pantry is no food 

That he cannot digest ; 
Who from the boundless universe, 

As he's a right to do. 
Absorbs a corporosity. 

Commensurate thereto. 



1 82 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE SONG OF THE OPTIMIST 



" Some whiskey is worse than other whiskey ; but there is no 
bad whiskey." — Kentucky Proverb. 



Let all who live give heed unto 

This proverb from Kentucky ; 
Let men of divers kinds of luck 

Believe that they are lucky. 
And in the spirit of this creed 

Let no man dare be sad ; 
Some luck is worse than other luck — 

But there is no luck that's bad. 
Some luck is undesirable, 

But no luck wholly bad. 

The times may stagnate, mills decay, 

And trade be far from frisky; 
But times are very much, I ween, 

Like old Kentucky whiskey. 
A man who lives in any times 

Should be exceeding glad ; 
Some times are worse than other times, 

But there is no time that's bad. 
All times 'tis good to be alive — 

No times entirely bad. 



The So7ig of the Optimist 183 

A man whose wife is loud of tongue 

Should still be brave and plucky, 
And think upon this proverb of 

This whiskey of Kentucky. 
Yes, let him simply stop his ears, 

And struggle to be glad, — 
Some wives are worse than other wives. 

But there is no wife that's bad. 
Some wives are somewhat garrulous 

None absolutely bad. 

A man who mopes about his work 

Should cheer up and be frisky. 
And know that every kind of work 

Is like Kentucky whiskey. 
He who has work enough to do 

Should nevermore be sad ; 
Some work is worse than other work, 

But there is no work that's bad. 
Some work may be unpopular. 

No work entirely bad. 

And, like this beverage they drink 

As water in Kentucky, 
Is life itself, more glad than sad, 

More lucky than unlucky. 
A man who's lived and had his day 

Should pass on, calm and glad ; 



184 Whiffs from Wild Aleadows 

Some lives are worse than other lives, 
But there is no life that's bad. 

Some lives may be tumultuous, 
But no life wholly bad. 



The President's Baby 185 



THE PRESIDENT'S BABY 



The President's baby we salute! 
Wish her long life and good repute. 
Like all babes, may she be the best, 
The cutest and the darlingest. 
The sweetest and the fairest, she, 
Just as all other babies be ; 
The nicest, prettiest, and best, 
And perfect, just like all the rest. 

Still, Fortune unto her denies 
Her great and most transcendent prize, 
The gift no future fate can harm 
Of being born upon a farm. 

Born in the White House, where the cows 
In scented pastures never browse, 
Where flower-drunk wild bees never boom 
Through meadows lit with summer bloom. 
Where her young feet can wander through 
No tangled fields baptized with dew. 
Nor chase the burnished butterflies, 
Live fragments dropped from sunset skies, 



1 86 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

Nor follow where the wild brook leads 
Its lazy pathway through the meads, 
Nor learn the dialect of the breeze, 
Nor be a cousin to the trees. 
Nor ever feel the home-made charm 
That ever broods above the farm. 

The farmhouse as a place of birth 
Excels all palaces on earth. 
Born in the purple is the man 
Whose life upon a farm began ; 
A young prince of the blood is he, 
Born to a kingdom wide and free. 
And by his kingly right of birth 
He reigns a sovereign of the earth. 
The earth its natural bounty yields 
To this young satrap of the fields. 
And spreads her best gifts, full and free, 
Before his barefoot majesty. 

How full on Nature's bounty feeds 
This rhymeless poet of the meads ! 
What pictures paints she in his eye ! 
What visions of the earth and sky, 
Which the dull blur of many a year 
Can never cause to disappear — 
Those pictures of the steadfast hills, 
Those pictures of the winding rills, 



The Freside?it's Baby 187 

Those lilied meadows, and the fields 

That incense of the clover yields, 

Those orchards — when the earth and sky 

In loving bridal joy draw nigh, 

The earth puts on to meet her groom 

These robes of blushing apple bloom. 

Those pictures, all beyond the gleam 

Of any painter's fairest dream. 

Go with him through the after years. 

Through mounts of joy, through vales of tears, 

By distance' soft enchantment kissed, 

And bathed in memory's mellow mist. 

Life's direst tumult cannot harm 
These placid pictures of the farm ; 
And when Fate's darkest tempests roll 
Through the black midnight of the soul, 
The visions of those early days 
Of life's serene, untrampled ways. 
They come to soothe us, fair and calm. 
And bring the blessing of the farm. 

The President's baby, though she be, 
Has missed life's fairest destiny, — 
The gift no future fate can harm 
Of being born upon a farm. 



1 88 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE SONG OF THE TRAMP 



The world owes me a living; and 

I roam o'er plain and hill, 
Through all the highways of the land, 

Just to collect my bill. 
I own the world by right of birth ; 

I am the first of gents ; 
I am a landlord of the earth, 

And out collecting rents. 

I beg ? Come off ! I simply dun ; 

And everywhere I go 
I ask, from rise to set of sun, 

" Fork over what you owe." 
I steal ? Get out ! I regulate 

My tenants as I choose ; 
I am inspecting my estate. 

And gathering in my dues. 

In spanking teams of four-in-hand 
Plump men go riding by, — 

Proud men who sleep on feathers, and 
Who gorge themselves with pie. 



The Song of the Tramp 189 

" I am your landlord," then say I ; 

" And though you spurn me, still 
Your rents are due, and by and by 

I'll call round with my bill." 




I own the earth. But 'tis too great 

For one lone man to mind, 
And so I've farmed out my estate 

On shares among mankind. 
I own the world by right of birth; 

I am the first of gents ; 
I am a landlord of the earth, 

And out collecting rents. 



190 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE CONCORD FIGHT 



We started forth at break of light 

To seek the ground whereon they stood, 

Those men who fought the Concord Fight 
When men were strong and good. 

Calm silence brooded everywhere ; 

We drank the beauty of the day; 
The earth poured incense to the air — 

The fragrance of the hay. 

Our talk was of those ancient men, 
The running fight in field and wood. 

The birth-throes of the nation, when 
Brave men were strong and good. 

And yet we saw strong men that day 
At toil beneath the summer sun. 

And felt that labor's battle-fray. 
In truth, was never done. 

Why start, we asked, at break of light 
To seek the ground whereon they stood, 

Those men who fought the Concord Fight 
When men were strong and good .'' 



The Co7icord Fight 191 

To-day, and all the years to come, 

The battle-music of the fife, 
The martial clangor of the drum, 

Shall time the march of life. 

The long war wages evermore, 

The deathless foe must be withstood. 

To-day, as in the days of yore, 
Are men still strong and good. 



192 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE MAN OF LEISURE'S CREED 



I LIVE, I live to fill up space 

No other substance fills up ; 
I live to sponge the human race ; 

I live to run my bills up ; 
I live to fill up time between 

Last evening and to-morrow ; 
I live to keep my memory green, 

And see what I can borrow. 

I live for one who loves me, 

And dowers me with pelf ; 
Through pleasant places shoves me, 

My one true love, — myself. 
I live that I may still exist. 

And still keep on existing ; 
I live the dinner-bell to list, 

And still keep on a-list'ning. 

I do not live to toil and seethe, 
As other folks are seething, 

But, 'cause it's easier to breathe 
Than to refrain from breathing. 



I'he Man of Leisure V C7'eed 

I live, I live to wear my clo'es, 

And get myself admired ; 
To hold myself from work and woes, 

And keep from getting tired. 



^93 




I live, I live to daily get 

Whatever I am getting. 
And sit and sit and sit and sit, 

Because I'm fond of sitting. 
I live, because it's work that kills — 

The world owes me a living — 
And while my good wife pays my bills, 

I render up thanksgiving. 



194 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



A MIGHTY AMBITION 



In this great Ian', where all is free, no man can't 

aim too high. 
Don't shoot at ground-snipe ; aim for stars, the 

highes' in the sky. 
The humbles' men, our elder says, hez climbed 

to great renown, 
An' shinned up Fortune's highes' tree, an' snatched 

her apples down. 

" Then struggle on," sez he ; " be bold, an' not 

afraid to climb. 
An' jine the great souls on the heights an' summits 

of our time ! " 
Them words er hisn jest struck home ; I vowed 

that days an' nights 
I'd toil to meet them mighty souls up there upon 

the heights. 

The way is long, the path is steep, the top is 

fur away. 
But I will toil an' struggle on, an' climb from 

day to day. 



A Mighty Ambitioji 195 

My aim is high ; but on I press, an' I puppose 

to be, 
Some far-off day, highway surveyor in Deestrict 

Number Three. 



I'll climb that dizzy height some day, an' on the 

top I'll sit, 
Wen I will boss three miles of road an' one 

whole gravel-pit. 
A puppose firm, a courage brave, a will no blows 

can tame, 
Will land a strong ambitious soul upon the heights 

er fame. 

And that's where I puppose to git, where I pup- 
pose to be — 

Eight shovellers an' two pickaxe men, an' one 
boy under me ; 

Ten bosses, an' four dump-cart teams, two ploughs, 
a yoke er steers — 

An' I puppose to reach this height inside er thirty 
years. 

Then do not try to hoi' me back ; up ! up ! I 

mus' be gone ; 
The motter of ambitious souls is, "On! an' on ! 

an' on!" 



196 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

My aim is high ; but on I press, an' I puppose 

to be 
Some far-off day, highway surveyor in Deestrict 

Number Three ! 



The Old Man 's Boy 



197 



THE OLD MAN'S BOY 



In Sleepy Hollow Graveyard, when the long day 
was done, 

I sadly mused above the dust that once was Emer- 
son ; 




And where caressing zephyrs the clustered green- 
ery wave, 

I stood in chastened reverie at Hawthorne's quiet 
grave. 



198 Whiffs frofn Wild Meadows 

On this green hill, 'neath sun and stars, will sleep 

from age to age 
The Dreamer in his dreamless sleep, the Mystic, 

and the Sage ; 
The best (the crown of all her years) our 

Western World can show. 
The fullest fiowerage of our time, is buried here 

below. 

They sleep, nor heed the winter's storm, nor feel 

the summer breeze — 
They sleep, but the strong words they spake are 

blown o'er all the seas. 
I turned away where bending grass o'er humbler 

burial waves. 
And there beheld a gray old man who walked 

among the graves. 

" Great men are buried here," I said. He wiped 

a falling tear. 
"Great men," he sighed, "I know — but then — 

my boy is buried here. 
God gave them strength, and length of days till 

all their work was done ; 
My boy — my boy we buried here before his work 

begun ! " 

The Dreamer and the Mystic — I left them to 
their fame, 



The Old Man V Boy 199 

And silent left the poor boy's grave — the grave 

without a name. 
Their home is in the thought of men, in nations 

wide apart ; 
The boy finds love as warm as theirs in his old 

father's heart. 




I. 

When first moved into Rundown young Dr. Sarah 

Brown, 
The little town of Rundown was a very run-down 

town. 

The steeple had dropped off the church ; the 

schoolhouse had caved in ; 
And nothing flourished in the town but ignorance 

and sin. 



The graveyard at the village end in silent peace 
outspread ; 

But the live men of that village in that grave- 
yard all were dead. 



The Rejuvenatio7i of Rundown 201 

For there are those communities that by some 

means contrive 
To get its Hve men in the grave and keep its 

dead ahve. 

So when moved into Rundown young Dr. Sarah 

Brown, 
The Httle town of Rundown was a very run-down 

town. 

11. 

When Sarah came to Rundown, the village had 
no "go;" 

But Sarah hitched its trolley to another dy- 
namo. 

For Sarah every morning hitched up her spanking 

steed, 
And seized her medicine valise, and rushed off 

at full speed. 

She was nineteenth-century lightning — she went 

so fleet and fast — 
Mixed with the cold molasses of a mediaeval 

past. 

And so at this tempestuous speed she travelled 

every day ; 
A cyclone through a cemetery, she whirled upon 

her way. 



202 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

III. 

And young Erastus Peterson forthwith began to 

stir ; 
For young Erastus Peterson fell dead in love 

with her. 

And young Erastus Peterson put on a bosom 
shirt, 

And from his finger-nails removed the immemo- 
rial dirt; 

And from his immemorial sleep he wakened with 

a bound, 
And, moved by Dr. Sarah Brown, began to hustle 

round. 

And henceforward from that hour there were two 

live men in town — 
The young Erastus Peterson and Dr. Sarah 

Brown. 

IV. 

Now in the town of Rundown, as you may well 

suppose. 
In this somnolescent village there were somno- 

lescent beaus. 



The Rejuvenation of Rundown 203 

And every girl who had a beau, she told him — 
every one — 

What an elegant young fellow was Erastus Peter- 
son. 

And all these girls to all these beaus made such 

a hullabaloo, 
That, as young Erastus hustled, all these fellows 

hustled too. 

So all these fellows hustled ; and soon the whole 

slow town 
Was hitched unto the dynamo of Dr. Sarah 

Brown. 

V. 

And their turgid cold molasses of a mediaeval past. 
Struck by nineteenth-century lightning, then began 
to trickle fast. 

And to-day no livelier village for its enterprise 

and snap, 
And its fin de sieck vigor, can be found upon the 

map. 

And they wished to name it Brownville ; but 'twas 

plain it couldn't be done, 
For she who once was Sarah Brown was Sarah 

Peterson. 



204 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

But she said, "Name it Boomville, for that is 

much the same." 
And they named the village Boomville ; they 

could find no better name. 



A Millionaire Pauper 205 



A MILLIONAIRE PAUPER 



How can you set there an' purtend you don't 

know who I be ? 
This land, ez fur ez you can see, it all belongs 

to me. 

Don't know me ? Well, I am surprised ! Don't 

know me ? Well thet's fine ! 
This county fer ten miles aroun' is ev'ry acre 

mine. 

The hull blame thing belongs to me, I own it 
every rod ; 

An' you don't know me ? Is it true sich igno- 
rance stalks abroad .? 

Them fields, them woods, them parsture lands, ez 

fur ez you can see — 
An' you, you fail to reker'nize a millionaire like 

me ? 

What's thet ? You own this land yourself thet 

stretches near and far ? 
You are the sole proprietor ? You mean you 

think you are. 



2o6 ^Vhiffs from Wild Meadows 

You've got the deed in black an' white for all 

this wood an' field ? 
You've got the parchment duly sworn, recorded, 

signed, an' sealed ? 

I'm glad to meet ye. Howdy do ? Afore I fin' 

my grave 
I'm glad to meet the feller who hez been my 

faithful slave. 

For you have been a slave to me, have taken all 

my care, 
An' kerried all my burdens while I played the 

millionaire. 

You've payed my taxes ev'ry year, and paid all 

bills when due, 
An' done my worryin' for me — I'm much obliged 

to you. 

An' coz you have the title-deed held firmly in 

your hand, 
You've got the crazy notion you're the owner of 

this land. 

An' though I feel you are insane, an' crazy ez 

can be, 
You've been a useful maniac an' lunatic fer 

me. 



A Millionaire Pauper 207 

For I insist this land is mine ; for standin' at 

this tree, 
The land is mine for miles aroun', ez fur ez you 

can see. 

Why not ? Why not ? For me is blown the clo- 
ver's sweet perfume, 

For me the pussy-willers bud, for me the apples 
bloom ; 

For me the mowin' fields send up the incense 

of the hay, 
For me the medder brook tunes up its rattlin' 

song all day ; 

For me is blown the balsam breath your mighty 

forest yields. 
An' I inhale — don't cost a cent — the healin' of 

your fields. 

I have no plantin' to be done, yit from the flowers 

an' dew, 
An' from the medder smells, I reap a bigger crop 

than you. 

An' pray, why should I plant an' hoe, why should 

I dig an' plow. 
When crops an' harvests of delight drop down 

from ev'ry bough ? 



2o8 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

An' so I say this land is mine, an' 1 still hold 
it dear ; 

But I will let you pay the tax, I'll never inter- 
fere. 

An' you may wave your title-deed triumphantly 
in air, 

But I am certain, just the same, that I'm a mil- 
lionaire. 

But I am glad to see you, sir. I'm sure I'm glad 

to see 
A man who's drudged so many years, and done 

my chores for me. 

Come down an' see me, won't you, sir ? I'm sure 

I'd like to be 
Much more acquainted with the man who's done 

so much for me. 

Where do I live ? The County Farm, way over 

there, you see ; 
You'll find me there, when I'm at home — room 

Number 23. 



The Candidates at the Fair 209 



THE CANDIDATES AT THE FAIR 



The two opposing candidates went to the county 

fair. 
One had cologne upon his clothes, one hayseed 

in his hair ; 
One travelled burdened with ten trunks that bore 

his twenty suits, 
One bore the soil from fourteen towns upon his 

shineless boots. 

The prim dude candidate was wise in economic 

lore, 
And soaked them full of statesmanship till they 

could hold no more. 
He cited economic laws in terms abstruse and 

deep, 
And principles and precedents until they went to 

sleep. 

He quoted from Calhoun and Clay and Jefferson 

at will ; 
From Adam Smith, Sir Thomas More, and from 

John Stuart Mill; 



2 1 o Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

From Plato and from Aristotle, Guizot, and Her- 
bert Spencer ; 

And all the while he talked and talked their 
ignorance grew denser. 

And then the hayseed candidate stood up there 

at the fair, 
While his unlimbered whiskers waved and flaunted 

through the air, 
And told them how he raised his corn, and how 

he cut his hay, 
And how through fifty working years he'd made 

his farming pay. 

He told them how he'd ained his swamp, and 

how he'd built his fence. 
And showed them what hard work can do when 

mixed with common-sense. 
" And now send me to Congress, friends," said 

plain old Silas Brown, 
" An' I'll make things you sell go up, an' things 

you buy come down. 

" I hain't no learned prinserples ; I'm plain ol' 

Stick-in-the-Mud, 
A blunt, plain man like you an' you, an ignorant 

ol' cud ; 



The Candidates at the Fa 



211 



An' I don't know no books an' things, like this 

wise chap from town ; 
But I'll make things you sell go up, an' things 

you buy come down. 




"I ain't no statesman who can talk purtection or 

free trade ; 
My ban's too stiff to hoi' a pen, that's made to 

hoi' a spade ; 



2 12 Whiffs from Wild Meadoivs 

Them ten-foot eddicated words my tongue can't 

wallop roun' ; 
But I'll make things you sell go up, an' things 

you buy come down. 

"I can't talk on the currency, nor on the revenue, 
An' on the laws an' statoots I'm as ignorant as 

you; 
An' I jest simply promise you, sure's I am Silas 

Brown, 
I'll make the things you sell go up, an' things 

you buy come down." 

The fair-ground echoed wide with cheers and loud 
huzzas thereat ; 

For who can ask a better scheme of statesman- 
ship than that ? 

And next week at the polls he beat his rival 
high and dry — 

But things we sell continue low, and things we 
buy are high. 



Bill^ Tom J Ned, Dick, Pete, Jim, and Me 213 



BILL, TOM, NED, DICK, PETE, JIM, AND ME 



Bill, Tom, Ned, Dick, Pete, Jim, and me, 
We alius managed to agree. 
When we wuz schoolboys and wuz small 
The same school district held us all. 
We flew our kites from the same knoll, 
An' swum in the same swimmin' hole ; 
We bobbed for fish in the same pond, 
An' hunted the same woods beyond ; 
We chased through the same pasture lot 
The woodchucks that we never caught ; 
Loved the same girl, who, sad to tell. 
Got merried to a city swell. 
Bill, Tom, Ned, Dick, Pete, Jim, and me. 
We alius managed to agree. 

We alius said w'en we were growed 
We'd trudge through life by the same road. 
Bill, Tom, Ned, Dick, Jim, Pete, and me 
Would alius manage to agree. 

But Bill he went to raisin' chicks. 
An' Tom he went to makin' bricks : 



214 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

Ned stayed at home to work, an' Dick 
He run a sawmill at the crick ; 
Jim went to raisin' garding sass, 
An' Pete he give his time to grass ; 
An' me — wall, I, you understand, 
I am a railroad section hand. 

But Bill, Tom, Ned, Dick, Jim, an' Pete 
Are not the same I uster meet. 
They take no interest, I declare. 
In keepin' railroads in repair. 
For w'en I bring the subject round 
On how to keep the road-bed sound, 
Bill goes off on his poultry craze 
And the best kind of hens to raise ; 
An' Tom, it seems, don't care a whack 
'Bout any kind of railroad track, 
But his whole conversation sticks 
For everlastingly on bricks ; 
An' Ned, he almost alius fails 
To take an' interest in rails. 
An' w'en I tell him how to strike 
The proper way a railroad spike, 
He'll go to talkin', sure's yer born. 
About the way to raise good corn ; 
An' alius w'en I talk to Dick 
'Bout how to run a han'car quick, 
He'll switch to sawmills in a minute, 



Bill^ To?fi^ Ned, Dick, Fete, Jim, and Me 2 1 5 

An' he don't take no interest in it. 

You talk to Jim the whole day long 

'Bout how to make a culvert strong, 

So it won't break and go to smash, 

An' he'll switch off on succotash, 

On pie-plants, pear-trees great an' small, 

An' other sich-like fol-de-rol. 

You talk to Pete about the way 

To keep ol' sleepers from decay, 

He'll drop the hull blame thing, an' pass 

To timothy an' red-top grass. 

An' talk an' talk for half a day 

'Bout the best-sellin' kind er hay. 

Bill, Tom, Ned, Dick, Jim, Pete, an' me 

Can't never manage to agree. 

Once roses all on the same stem, 

I've kinder grown away from them. 

For I hev kep' through storm an' strife 

A higher intellechul life ; 

An' I couldn' hope they'd alius be 

Companions suitable for me ; 

An' I couldn' hope they'd understan' 

The intellec' of a railroad man. 

But I'll keep up through storm an' strife 

My higher intellechul life. 

An' try to love in very truth 

The humble cronies of my youth. 



2i6 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



WEN FATHER BOUGHT A BAR'L ER FLOUR 



Wen father bought a bar'l er flour, 

A bar'l er flour, 
It was a most tremenjous hour 
Wen father bought a bar'l er flour, 

A very huge event. 
He'd go off with the dingle cart ; 
We'd gather round to see him start, 

And watched him as he went. 
We'n father bought a bar'l er flour, 
It wuz a great an' solium hour. 

Wen father bought a bar'l er flour, 

A bar'l er flour, 
We watched a long and tedious hour; 
Wen father bought a bar'l er flour, 

We watched for him to come. 
Bimeby he came, drove on the place, 
A mixed, sad, glad, look on his face, 

A look that made us dumb. 
We seen its force, an' felt its power. 
Wen father bought a bar'l er flour. 



We?i Father Bought a Bar' I er Floicr 217 

Wen father bought a bar'l er flour, 

A bar'l er flour, 
We noted if the bread was sour, 
Wen father bought a bar'l er flour, 

Or was it riz or flat ; 
An' wuz the doughnuts light an' sweet, 
An' wuz the flapjacks fit to eat, 

The pie-crust, an' all that. 
These questions thronged the dinner-hour, 
Wen father bought a bar'l er flour. 



Wen father bought a bar'l er flour, 

A bar'l er flour, 
We all discussed for many an hour. 
Wen father bought a bar'l er flour. 

Its varus ins an' outs. 
If it wuz nice for slump or cake, 
An' if it left a stomach-ache. 

An' all our hopes an' doubts. 
It wuz a most tremenjous hour 
Wen father bought a bar'l er flour. 

Wen father bought a bar'l er flour, 

A bar'l er flour. 
The neighbors called from hour to hour, 
Wen father bought a bar'l er flour, 
An' tried our bread an' pie. 



2i8 Whiffs from Wild Meadoivs 

Some said 'twas good, but 'twouldn't last, 
'Twas sweet, but it would go too fast ; 

Some thought the price too high. 
The neighborhood discussed the power 
An' strenk of that ar' bar'l er flour. 

Wen father bought a bar'l er flour, 

A bar'l er flour, 
Hez been a long-remembered hour. 
Wen father bought a bar'l er flour, 

That I shall not fergit. 
Though I fit through the Civil War, 
An' then got merried, still, by gor, 

I reckerlect it yit ; 
An' I cannot fergit the hour 
Wen father bought a bar'l er flour. 



When Cy put o?i his Meetm^ Clones 219 



IVHEN CY PUT ON HIS MEETIN' CLO'ES 



Wen Cy put on his meetin' clo'es, 

His go-to-meetin' suit, 
There wuz no critter, I suppose, 

No fish, nor bird, nor brute. 
No anything on earth below. 

Or up there in the sky. 
That made one-half the holy show. 

Or looked ez bad as Cy. 

There is no critter, high or dry. 

On earth below or in the sky, 

No beast, or fish, or bird, or brute, 

Or any kin' of a galoot, 

Can look one-half as bad as Cy 

Wen he put on that suit. 

Wen Cy put on them clo'es, his j'ints 

They clanked like a lawn-mower ; 
An' his two ears in pick-ed pints. 

Hung down two inches lower. 
One eye looked up, one eye looked down, 

An' both eyes looked like murder; 
An' all the hair upon his crown. 

Stuck up two inches furder. 



Whiffs frovi Wild Meadows 

An' when Cy smiled he hurt his face, 
An' put his cheek-bones out of place. 
One foot it lagged behind, belated. 
An' one rushed on exhilerated ; 
For all his bones were out of place, 
An' all his limbs mismated. 

Wen them ar clo'es hung roun' his shape, 

Wen Cy put on thet suit. 
He looked too bad to let escape. 

An' yit too green to shoot. 
The deacon's breath came quick an' quicker, 

Then in a laff perdigious 
He bust in sich a graceless snicker. 

It sounded irreligious. 

An' so Cy broke the Sabbath Day, 

Wen he dressed out in thet array. 

The deacon laffed until he cried, 

An' Pratt's boy said, "he liked to died." 

The elder's buttons broke away — 

He bust in mirth unsanctified. 

His crooked laigs they looked like prongs, 

His feet like flattened spoons; 
He walked as if a pair of tongs 

Were dressed in pantaloons. 
His arms went flappin' like a flail, 

A danger to beholders, 



When Cy put on his Meetin' Clo'es 221 

Like two codfishes by the tail, 
Hitched onto his two shoulders. 
Wen Cy put on his Sunday best, 
His knee-j'ints bulged out north by west. 
An' west by south stuck out his toes ; 
In all directions turned his nose. 
Wen Cy in Sunday duds wuz dressed. 
Wen Cy put on them clo'es. 

An' w"en ol' Cy he came to die, 

He sez, "Wen I am gone, 
I wish to travel to the sky 

With my ol' trowsis on." 
He gasped between each racking cough, 

" Let my ol' duds be worn, 
Or I shall make a circus of 

The resurrection morn. 

Leave off them go-to-meetin' clo'es. 

Or I shall wish I'd never rose ; 

For Peter, he wouldn't let me in. 

Because 'twould be a dreffle sin 

For me to go in with them doe's. 

An' set all heaven a-grin." 



222 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE POET'S SONNET 



Once a poet wrote a sonnet 
On his Angelina's bonnet. 

Then he published it on vellum ; 
For that is the way to sell 'em. 

Then to every living poet 

Did he send it round to show it. 

Then to every book reviewer 
Did he send this literature. 

To receptions did he bring it, 
And recite it, read it, sing it. 

To the papers did he tote it. 
And he asked 'em all to quote it; 

Told the public readers 'bout it, 
And he asked 'em all to spout it. 

For two years through all the nation 
He received congratulation. 



The Poet's Sonnet 

Then again the sonnet took form, 
For he brought it out in book-form. 

Then he sent to each reviewer 
This new gem of literature. 



223 




Then he paused for recreation, 
And enjoyed his reputation. 



For five years he lived upon it 
Then he wrote another sonnet. 



224 Whiffs fro7n Wild Meadows 



A DISREPUTABLE MARTYR 



The morality was plastic 

Of the hero that I sing, 
And his conscience was elastic 

As an india-rubber string; 
And he had no aspiration 

For the lofty and the good, 
And in my estimation, 

Did no better than he should. 
And in my plain, unvarnished way, 
I here and now desire to say, 
His mind dwelt more on present fun than 
on the Judgment Day. 

And his speech was not resplendent 

With a deep and hallowed grace ; 
For a Sunday superintendent 

It would hardly be in place ; 
In a missionary meeting, 

Gathered in a sacred cause, 
It would hardly get the greeting 

Of tumultuous applause. 
And here and now it should be stated, 



A Disreputable Martyr 225 

That, in some tales that he narrated, 
'Twould be exceedingly polite to say that he 
prevaricated. 

And, to speak of his iniquity 

As honest men should speak, 
His ethical obliquity 

Was markedly oblique. 
I do not wish to slander, 

Nor to pile it on too thick ; 
But I say with perfect candor 
That he was a crooked stick. 
And here and now I would imply, 
That to old Satan's watchful eye 
Young Jim's transactions, in the main, were 
fairly satisfactory. 

Jim, he went to every fire, 

When he heard the fire-bell's peal. 
With a passionate desire 

Just to see what he could steal. 
For in a conflagration. 

If a fellow has sharp eyes, 
He can make appropriation 
Of some valued merchandise ; 
And Jim was not so good and pure 
But he'd buy merchandise, I'm sure, 
By other than the formal way of old-time 
cash expenditure. 



226 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

Jim, he went to one great fire 

Last May, with his usual zeal 
And habitual desire 

Just to see what he could steal ; 
And he'd stolen some things, maybe, — 

But rU not particularize, — 
When, " My baby ! Save my baby ! " 
Came a woman's piercing cries. 
"Yes; I'll save yer kid," Jim said; 

And she pointed overhead — 
" Up there in the highest story ! Hurry ! 
Hurry ! " and Jim fled. 

And he vanished through the fire, 

While the falling timbers broke, 

While the flames in many a spire 

Vanished into clouds of smoke ; 

And when the roof came crashing 

Do.vn in ruin to the ground. 
Through the red flame came Jim dashing. 
With the baby safe and sound. 
The woman, with her arms outspread. 
Reached forth and grasped her little Ned. 
Jim placed him in his mother's arms — and 
at her feet dropped dead. 

Then two book-leaves, with red flashes 
Flaming in the fervent heat. 



A Disreputable Martyr 



227 



Fell and turned to snow-white ashes 
Lying at the dead man's feet. 

" Ah ! those pages once were checkered 
With Jim's sins," a fireman said, 

"The Recording Angel's record 
Of the man that lies there dead. 




But when he saw that fellow die, 
He slashed these leaves out. There they lie. 
Jim's ledger's clean up there to-night. They 
keep books honest in the sky." 



228 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



PETER'S PICTURE 



Wen Peter hed his pictur' took, 

Wen Peter hed his pictur', 
He hed an agonizin' look ; 
His neck wuz twisted in a crook, 

Jest like a bow-constricter ; 
His hair wuz flyin' all about. 
Besides, his tongue wuz lollin' out ; 
Seems if his ears they flopped an' shook, 
Wen Peter hed his pictur' took, 

Wen Peter hed his pictur'. 

Wen Peter hed his pictur' took. 

Wen Peter hed his pictur'. 
He said that he perposed to look 
Jest like them picturs in a book. 

Jest like a Roman victor. 
But his ol' ^vhiskers stood out straight, 
So straight a forty-seven pound weight 
Couldn' pull 'em down ; an' there he set, 
With one eye open, t'other shet. 
Wen Peter hed his pictur' took, 

Wen Peter hed his pictur'. 



Peter ^s Picture 229 

Wen Peter hed his pictur' took, 

Wen Peter hed his pictur', 
He looked so desp'rit an' forsook, 
Hed sich a stranglin', chokin' look, 

Jest like a bow-constricter. 
An' w'en the man showed him the proof, 
I thought that Peter'd raise the roof ; 
He couldn' control hisself at all, 
But hed to set right down an' bawl, 
Wen Peter hed his pictur' took. 

Wen Peter hed his pictur'. 



230 Whiffs frotn Wild Meadows 



THE GRADED STREET 



Out in the country sixty year 
I worked an' struggled like a steer. 
I dug the groun' 'ith courage stout, 
An' dug ten thousan' dollars out. 
An' then I bought a house in town, 
An' moved my goods and family down ; 
Because I'd grown so ol' an' rich. 
An' wished conveniences, an' sich. 

Wen I want water, all I do 

Is jest to kinder turn a screw, 

An' out she comes. If I want light, 

I turn another screw at night. 

Folks bring my groceries an' meat. 

An' all I do is set an' eat. 

For city folks jest pay their bill. 

Get all they want, an' jest set still. 

My life was jest about complete 
Till they came roun' to grade my street. 
An' then they went to diggin' roun'. 
An' dug the whole top off the groun'; 



The Graded Street 231 

An' then they lef me stan'in' there 
Stuck up some twenty foot in air; 
An' they jest yanked away the street, 
Right out from un'erneath my feet. 
My house is stuck up, on my soul. 
Jest like a bird's house on a pole. 
I don't see how I'll git about, 
Unless my angel wings sprout out ; 
An' this, I think, can't hardly be 
Upon a chap as mad as me. 



An' now the miser'ble ol' town 

Says I mus' build my front steps down; 

An' run 'em down fer twenty feet 

Until they find an' strike the street. 

They went an' stole my street away, 

An' they will wait till Judgment Day 

Before I'll shin down twenty feet, 

To try to find some other street. 

For I purpose that them same men 

Shall bring that same street back again ! 

I'll jest go down, hand over hand, 

Upon a rope till I strike land. 

Build front steps down ! I'm no sich loon ; 

I'll leave my house by a balloon, 

Or any other kinder way 

Before I'll build them steps, I say. 



232 



Whiffs frojH Wild Meadows 



I've tol' the mayor, flat an' free, 
To bring that ar street back to me ; 
To bring it back, an' dump it down, 
Or I purpose to sue the town. 
The mayor set there, Hke a caff, 
Jest all he did was set an' laff. 




Says I, " You've yanked away the street. 
Right out from un'erneath my feet ; 
An' you have lef me stan'in' there. 
Stuck up some twenty foot in air. 
Ain't you a purty kind er mayor? 
You'll wait until your hair is grayer 



The Graded Street 233 

Before I bull' my front steps down, 
An' poke aroun' to fin' the groun'. 
The mayor set there, like a caff, 
An' all he did was set an' laff. 

But what's he more'n a thief, I say, 
Who comes an' steals a street away? 
Though he's the city's boss an' chief, 
He's nothin' but a common thief. 
An' I shall fight the man like sin. 
Until he brings it back ag'in. 



234 W/iiJrs from Wild Meadows 



A MODERN MALTHUSIAN 



I can't git no job ; 

'Tain't no good to try. 
There is too many born, 

An' there ain't enough die; 
There's too big a crowd 

Fer a man to wedge in. 
I can't find no job, 

An' I sha'n't try ag'in ; 
You can't git no job 

In the kentry or town. 
There is too many folks in the worl'. 
An' there ain't enough jobs to go roun'. 

Wen the worl' wuz cut out, 

'Twas cut out too small ; 
'Twarn't made big enough 

Fer its purpose at all. 
The crowd is jammed in. 

In a terrible cram ; 
Best thing you can do 

Is git out er the jam. 
So I've crawled from the crowd, 

An' I've jest settled down. 



A Modern Malthusian 235 

There is too many folks in the worl', 
An' there ain't enough jobs to go roun'. 

My talents is large, 

But they've no room to grow; 
The worl' is too small, 

An' they don't get no show. 
"An'," sez I to myself, 

"You, Sempronius Lang, 
Clear out er this mob, 

x\n' git out er this gang; 
For the mob'll jest crowd, 

An' jest trample ye down. 
There is too many folks in the worl'. 
An' there ain't enough jobs to go roun'.'^ 

An' it don't do no good. 

An' I ain't goin' to look, 
Fer all places is filled, 

An' the jobs is all took. 
The worl' it wuz built 

On a too narrer plan ; 
So I'm a shut-out. 

An' a left-over man. 
So what is the good 

For to rush up an' down ? 
There is too many folks in the worl', 
An' there ain't enough jobs to go roun'. 



236 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

There wuz jest one job left 

In Bill Green's cotton-mill ; 
All the one I could find 

In the hull worP to fill. 
But I've sich a big heart, 

This one job of my life, 
I jest give it up, 

Gen'rous-like, to my wife ; 
An' there ain't no more jobs, 

So I've jest settled down. 
There is too many folks in the worl'. 
An' there ain't enough jobs to go roun'. 



The Song of the Brook 237 



THE SONG OF THE BROOK 



I HASTE by hill and valley,. 

I haste by mead and lea, 
I am the message-bearer 

From the mountains to the sea. 
I am the mountains' courier, 

And every meadow thrills 
While I carry to the ocean 

The tidings of the hills ; 
And every meadow hears it, 

For, as I go each day, 
Lest I forget the message, 

I sing it all the way. 

And the lily blooms grow whiter. 

And loud the meadows ring 
With the exultant gladness 

Of the message that I sing. 
What do I tell the ocean ? 

That all the hills are strong. 
And all the forests on their backs 

Melodious with song ; 
That to the youth of nature 

The hoary hills are true, 



238 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

And that the ancient mountains 
And this old world are new. 

What do I tell the ocean ? 

That on the sun-kissed hills 
Are perfumed winds of healing, 

And music-haunted rills ; 




From their eternal altars 

For evermore shall rise, 
In all its Eden freshness, 

New incense to the skies. 
The hazy mists of summer, 

That o'er their summits dwell, 
Brood like a benediction. 

That says that all is well. 

What do I tell the ocean t 
I say the hills are fair, 



llie So fig of the Brook 239 

And drink an ever-fresher health 

From heaven's infolding air ; 
That sunward ferns are springing 

Within their deepest glooms, 
And that the fields are drifted 

With snow of apple-blooms ; 
And that there's mighty music 

Where mountain torrents meet ; 
And that the heart of nature 

For evermore is sweet. 

What do I tell the ocean ? 

I say the hills are high, 
But draw new youth each morning 

From the chalice of the sky. 
They drink the virtue of the day. 

The great sun's heat and light, 
And bathe themselves in stillness 

And the silence of the night ; 
And the winds around their summits, 

With strong, triumphant breath, 
Proclaim, above a land of graves, 

That there can be no death. 

What do I tell the ocean ? 

That life blooms everywhere; 
That the day is glad with music, 

And all the world is fair ; 



240 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

And the proud tiger lilies, 

And meadow grasses near, 
And all the drooping willows 

And alders bend to hear. 
My song of joy and gladness, 

My song of hope and glee, 
Makes one long strip of greenness 

From the mountains to the sea. 

So I will tell the ocean 

What the strong mountains say, 
With all the added gladness 

I have gathered on the way ; 
That the smile of deathless beauty, 

As at creation's birth, 
With all its old, eternal charm. 

Still glorilies the earth. 
To tell this to the ocean 

I through the land am whirled, 
So that its' mightier anthem 

May tell it to the world. 



Uncle Ted and Boston 241 



UNCLE TED AND BOSTON 



Ol' Boston sets there by the sea, an' hez a 

thousan' arms, 
Thet reaches out through all the Ian', through 

all the hills and farms ; 
Strong arms they be, thet never rest, but pull by 

night an' day. 
An' feel new strength w'en they hev drawn our 

boys an' gals away. 

An' fingers on those mighty arms through every 

valley dart. 
An' us ol' fellers feel 'em alius pullin' at our 

heart ; 
For w'en the arms of Boston once are drawn 

aroun' a lad. 
They pull him from his mother's arms, an' pull 

him from his dad. 

For there is sights in Boston, so they tol' me, 

thet are gran' ; 
For there is centred all the brains an' money of 

the Ian', 



242 Whiffs from Wild Meadoivs 

Houses that start down undergroun', an reach up 

to the sky, 
An' men almost too rich an' gran' an' good an' 

wise to die. 



An' men there jest know everything, and lug it 

in their heads ; 
For in Boston wisdom's ketchin', and, like the 

mumps, it spreads. 
So my boys went down to Boston — I couldn't 

keep 'em here — 
An' I went down to visit 'em an' see the sights 

last year. 

But everybody laffed at me, an' called me an oP 

duff, 
Because I didn't talk like them, an' wear their 

kin' er stuff; 
For them wise men in Boston, they ain't wise 

enough to know 
A biled shirt doesn't make a man, who has no 

heart below. 

She may hev poet fellers whose songs fill earth 

an' skies. 
An' flosserfers, an' things like that ; but I can 

flosserfize. 



Uncle Ted afid Bosto7i 243 

My flosserfy is this : A man may live an awful 

while, 
An' keep his clo'es in fashion, an' his soul be 

outer style. 

An' I'm jest ez good ez Boston. Let her throw 

her arms aroun', — 
There's one ol' chap clings to the hills, an' she 

can't pull him down ; 
An' I will wear my ol' plain duds no sun or rain 

can spile. 
Nor worry 'bout the fashion-plate, but keep my 

soul in style. 



244 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



TOM AND BILL 



I. 

Tom uster talk till all was dumb ; 
But Bill would set an' twirl his thumb. 

Us boys at school would set around, 

While Tom would crack the air with sound. 

He showed us all his future course — 
How he would shake the universe ; 

An' how his name, from sea to sea, 
Would rattle through our history. 

Bill crossed his laigs, an' set there dumb, 
Jest set there still, an' twirled his thumb. 



II. 

An' we all thought that Tom was great. 
An' big enough to rule the State. 

Beside him Bonyparte looked small ; 
An' Washington warn't very tall ; 



Toi?i a7id Bill 



245 



An' General Jackson side er him — 
A babe 'longside a seraphim ! 

''White House'Il be too small for him 
Wen he is Presidunt," said Jim. 



^'"^^^^ 0^^% 




^^v/ 




But Bill, he on'y set there dumb, 

Jest set there still, an' twirled his thumb. 



III. 

An' w'en Tom went away from school, 
He said his teacher was a fool : 



246 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

An' then he took five hours to show 
How much his teacher didn't know ; 

Then talked ten hours to make us see 
Jest how much more he knowed than he. 

This wisdom-reservoy poured forth 
Its waters on the dried-up earth. 

We sunk — we were too tired to walk — 
Drowned in the ocean of his talk. 

But Bill upon the shore set dumb ; 
He jest set still, an' twirled his thumb. 

IV. 

The war broke out ; an' evr'y night 
Tom showed his neighbors how to fight. 

He'd make each night — at Blancom's store ■ 
His sabre whiz, his cannon roar. 

Oh, loud would swish his flashin' blade ! 
An' loud would roar his cannonade ! 

An' fierce he swum out from the shore 
Into a swashin' sea of gore ! 

Each night he drilled his soldiers raw, 
An' fought, an' finished up the war! 



Tom a?id Bill 247 

He did it — up North — with his mouth ; 
The cUmate was too hot down South. 

V. 

But Bill, he raised a troop of men, 
An' marched away as cap'n then. 

They made him colonel. He stood dumb, 
An' simply blushed, an' twirled his thumb. 

But 'neath red battle's fiery suns 

He did loud talkin' — through his guns. 

Wen general, he put on no starch ; 

An' all he said was, " Forrerd ! March ! " 

He made no speech as on he led; 

" Forrerd ! " and " Fire ! " was all he said. 

An' through a hunderd battles grim 
He let his loud guns speak for him. 

VI. 

Back through the Ian' he helped to save, 
An' make too pure for a slave ; 

Back from the awful, bloody years. 
Back through an avenoo of cheers, 



248 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

Marched General Bill. The loud hurrahs 
Rolled up, an' reached the list'nin' stars. 

He rode through all the loud cheers dumb; 
But dropped a tear, an' twirled his thumb. 

VII. 

But Tom still goes to Blancom's store, 
An' talks, as in the days of yore ; 

Still shows his wondrous wealth of brains 
By criticising Bill's campaigns. 

He shows the great mistakes Bill made ; 
Shows all his actions second grade ; 

Shows his own military skill 
Is far be-end the reach of Bill, 

An' how, if Bill hed done his ways, 
The war had closed in thirty days. 

An' once up to the State House, where 
or Bill sets in the guv'nor's chair. 

Did ol' Tom go — he warn't afraid — 
To tell Bill the mistakes he'd made. 

An' Bill, he jest set still there, dumb ; 
He jest set still, an' twirled his thumb. 



Fate 249 



FATE 

O'er Moses' wave-tossed cradle in the Nile 

I stood, and smoothed the torrent's troubled 

breast, 
Until it lulled the unconscious babe to rest. 
On a frail caravel, o'er many a mile 
Of unploughed waste of sea, I stood ; and while 

The strong Columbus gazed into the west. 
And mutinous sailors mocked his mighty quest, 
I gave the Admiral courage with my smile. 



I led the strolling players to the town 

Where Avon's waters o'er the pebbles broke, 
And the young Shakespeare played in child- 
ish joy. 
He heard the play-king, listened to the clown; 
And there the world's supremest poet woke 
Within the heart of that young, careless boy. 



250 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE BATTLE IN THE MIST 



From the loud squabbles of the men of thought, 
The bitter hates of bard and scientist, 
The feuds between sage and religionist, 

I turn away with sadness overwrought, 

With all their fierce logomachy distraught ; 
For they are warriors fighting in the mist — 
Friend smiting friend for an antagonist, 

And brother piercing brother, all for naught. 

I turn aside from all this loud uproar 

Of men of peace transformed to sons of strife. 
The tumult of their ineffectual rage ; 
And find a peace, increasing more and more. 
Within the inner calm of that great life. 

The godlike tolerance of Shakespeare's page. 



The Voyage 251 



THE VOYAGE 



Out from the Harbor of the Shadowy Shore 
We sail into the gladness of the day; 
A breath of spice from islands far away 

Allures us on to where the deep seas roar. 

The lightnings play about us, and before 

Our cleaving prow the tempest marks its way 
With broken wrecks ; but still we cannot stay. 

A voice beyond the storm calls evermore. 

We spread our sails to catch the wind and 
breeze, 
The wandering zephyr, or the simoom's breath ; 
And on we sail, nor strength nor purpose 
fails. 
Till through the sunset of alluring seas. 

Through twilight splendors, do we drift toward 
death, — 
The silent Isle of Unreturning Sails. 



252 ]Vhiffs from Wild Meadows 



MY SABBATHS 



My Sabbaths come not with the hastening weeks, 
Nor with the phases of the changeful moon ; 
They lie outside of time, but, late or soon, 

With glad purpureal and auroral streaks 

Of the full-risen morning, flush the cheeks 
Of the soul's midnight, and I feel the boon 
Of life's supremest effluence at its noon. 

And gain an outlook from its highest peaks. 

The old earth and the ancient heavens grow new; 
God's throne, I feel, sits calm in central peace ; 
The worlds to that old primal music roll 
Upon those holy days, — alas ! so few, — 
Those sacred days of freedom and release. 
Those dateless, timeless Sabbaths of the soul. 



The Coming American 253 



THE COMING AMERICAN 



[Read at Mr. Henry C. Bowen's Annual Fourth of July Celebra- 
tion, at Roseland Park, Woodstock, Conn., July 4, 1894.] 



On the Fourth of July we all love to dilate 
With the thought that we are inexpressibly great; 
That we're all legatees of fate's fairest bequest, 
And that destiny's egg has been laid in our nest; 
'^I'hat we've climbed up the sides, up the roof, 

and sublime 
We stand on the top of the ridge-pole of time. 
The horizon's too narrow to limit our stride. 
And infinite space is too small for our pride ; 
Heaven's vault is too small our hosannas to ring, 
And the zenith too low for our gestures to swing ; 
Our heads are too tall for the low-studded sky, 
And we call for " more room ! " on the Fourth 

of July. 

'Tis a day you expect that the orthodox bard 
His poetical bunting will flaunt by the yard ; 
'Tis a time you expect his tumultuous Muse 
To explode at the end of a sky-rocket fuse. 



254 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

Still I venture to tempt the bold heretic's curse, 
And tremblingly give my unorthodox verse. 

For aren't we too old to be pleased, like the 

boys, 
With glory and gunpowder, thunder and noise ? 
Too old to sit down in unruffled sedateness, 
And muse on our grand and ineffable greatness ? 
The loud days of our national boyhood are over, 
The barefooted freedom of dew and of clover ; 
And let us throw off, with the boy's outworn 

jacket, 
The old day of rollic and revel and racket. 
Those days are now passed ; they will not come 

again. 
We are men. Let us grapple the problems of 

men. 

And as men, may we not, on the Fourth of 

July, 
Some specks in our history's amber descry? 
As the politic small boy will creep, on the sly, 
To the side of the table that's nearest the pie, 
So we press around — and the crowding is great — 
To the luscious pie-side of the table of fate. 
But the small boy will learn, as the swift years 

go by, 
There are viands transcendently better than pie. 



The Coming American 255 

Let us look at the sum of our work 'neath the sun. 
Have we yet done as much as the old past has 

done ? 
We have built our large cities of marble and 

brick ; 
But our Shakespeares and Platos are not very 

thick. 
We have urged them to speak with the best of 

good-will ; 
But our Miltons are mute and inglorious still. 
Our dawn has now passed, and the morning grows 

late; 
But our absentee Angelos linger and wait. 
Our hastening noonday encroaches on morn; 
But our Darwins and Newtons have yet to be 

born. 

From the dead buried past there are phantoms 

arise, 
With scorn in the cavernous deeps of their eyes ; 
And they say, " We have searched for him, patient 

and far. 
Through your broad-acred Land of the Evening 

Star. 
We have called for him long ; but his voice is 

still dumb. 
Our brother still lingers ; our peer does not 

come." 



256 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

But we have had epics of mighty designs 
On manuscript ruled with the longitude lines. 
On a continent-manuscript, boldly and free, 
We have written our epics in railroads ; and we 
Have worked out our dramas. Each act is an 

age; 
And a land from the sea to the sea is our stage. 
We have grappled with nature, and tamed her. 

The fen, 
The swamp, and the forest, the wolverine's den, 
The home of the bison, the haunt of the bear, 
The thronged and the tall-towered cities are 

there ; 
And the nest of the serpent, the wild dragon- 
fen, 
Resound with the shouts of the children of men. 

Now the snake's hiss is hushed, and the wolf's 

howl is dumb. 
Has the hour not struck for our poet to come ? 
Now our cables are laid, and our railroads are 

wrought. 
Build us temples and fanes for the high-priests 

of thought. 
Now our prairies by million-trod pavements are 

lined, 
Build us highways that stretch to the frontiers of 

mind. 



The Coining American 257 

Now our cities are sown by sea, river, and glen, 
Let us look for a harvest of epochal men ; 
Let us look for a Voice from the wilderness sent 
To teach us a wise and divine discontent, — 
Discontent at mere bulk, tossed by waves and by 

breeze. 
With no pilot soul on the rudderless seas. 
Let us look for great bards whose tones, fervent 

and strong. 
Shall burst like the morn through our twilight of 

song; 
Wise prophets, whose sky-lifted eyes are alight 
With a gleam that is caught from the future's far 

height, 
Who see through the fogs o'er the valley out- 
spread 
The sunburst of hope on the mountains ahead. 
Is it not time to grow, in town, village, and glen, 
A strong breed of men who are saviours of men ? 
Strong pioneer souls who shall blaze out the 

way 
From the frontiers of night to the borders of 

day? 
Shall not this maternal pure soil of the West 
Foster sages and seers on its matronly breast ? 
Shall we not find once more, in these late years 

again. 
The pride of old Homer, wise shepherds of men ? 



258 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

Let us beckon these men, with our favor and 

praise, 
And giants shall grow in the earth in these days. 

We are large, and our largeness there's none to 
deny ; 

But Fate calls, and who answers with brave "Here 
am I '* ? 

Little Athens was small, but her soul still sur- 
vives 

With gifts of its graces in millions of lives ; 

But Scythia was large, and the long ages tread 

On the answerless dust of her myriad dead. 

Littlj Concord — great sons made this small vil- 
lage great ; 

Great Chicago ■ — ah, well ! We will listen and wait. 

There is music, I know, that is hopeful :nd blithe 

In the swing of the sickle, the sweep of the 
scythe ; 

In the lisp of the foreplane, the smith's anvil- 
peal. 

In the roar of the mill, and the clash of its 
wheel ; 

There's a music that's timed to the rhythmical 
beat 

Of the quick-step of Fate in the thunderous 
street ; 



The Coi7Wiz A77ierican 



259 



There's a music that's played by the breeze and 

the gale 
In the creak of the mast and the flap of the 

sail ; 
And there's something that smacks of an epical 

strain 
In the clank of the engine, the sweep of the 

train. 
This music, though mixed with the toilers' tired 

moan. 
And mingled with heart-break too deep for a 

groan, 
Is wrought out at length in an anthem sublime 
That fills without discord the wise ear of 

Time. 

But this is but prelude Fate's orchestra plays. 
To the strains that shall come in the fulness of 

days ; 
For the age-lengthened rhythm beat out by the 

Fates 
In the building of cities, the founding of states, 
In the earthquakes of war, in its thunder and 

groans. 
In the battles of kings, and the crumbling of 

thrones. 
Is but prelude that's written by Destiny's pen 
To herald an epoch of masterful men. 



26o Whiffs fro?n IVilii Meadows 

In that day we shall worship, by wisdom made 

whole, 
Not greatness of bulk, but perfection of soul ; 
And the thought-millionaires with our full acclaim 

then 
Will be wreathed and anointed the leaders of 

men. 
And methinks our Great Fate, from the hills to 

the sea, 
Has sent forth this call to the years yet to 

be: — 

Bring me men to match my mountains ; 

Bring me men to match my plains, — 
Men with empires in their purpose, 

And new eras in their brains. 
Bring me men to match my prairies, 

Men to match my inland seas. 
Men whose thought shall pave a highway 

Up to ampler destinies ; 
Pioneers to clear Thought's marshlands, 

And to cleanse old Error's fen ; 
Bring me men to match my mountains — 
Bring me men ! 

Bring me men to match my forests. 
Strong to fight the storm and blast, 

Branching toward the skyey future. 
Rooted in the fertile past. 



The Coming American 261 

Bring me men to match my valleys, 

Tolerant of sun and snow, 
Men within whose fruitful purpose 

Time's consummate blooms shall grow. 
Men to tame the tigerish instincts 

Of the lair and cave and den. 
Cleanse the dragon slime of Nature — 
Bring me men ! 

Bring me men to match my rivers, 

Continent cleavers, flowing free, 
Drawn by the eternal madness 

To be mingled with the sea; 
Men of oceanic impulse, 

Men whose moral currents sweep 
Toward the wide-infolding ocean 

Of an undiscovered deep; 
Men who feel the strong pulsation 

Of the Central Sea, and then 
Time their currents to its earth throb — 
Bring me men ! 



262 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE PRESS 



[Read in response to a toast at the Tilton, N.H., Seminary 
Association, at the Hotel Thorndike, Boston, the evening of March 
2, 1892.] 

You'll not expect stuff like the verse of John 

Milton, 
From a solemn old bard who was tutored at 

Tilton ; 
But a meal is completer for any good eater, 
If it's settled with song, and is rounded with 

metre. 

Now you've had a good supper as prelude and 

proem ; 
You're in first-rate condition to stand a poor 

poem. 
After meat for the eater 'tis meet that my metre 
Should call the Muse down to our table and seat 

her. 

My theme is The Press — that strong search- 
light inspector, 



The Press 265 

That exhibits all earth 'neath its calcium re- 
flector. 
It takes the whole planet to scour and scan it, 
And tell kings and kaisers the right way to man it. 

The man who peers into the mist-girdled mys- 
tery — 
That fog-bank of fable we call ancient history, 
Goes down in the hollow of old graves to wallow, 
We call him a sage, and revere him a scholar. 

But the press that writes history that's contempo- 
raneous, 

Makes the deed and narration almost simultane- 
ous. 

Deserves as high rating, as good compensating ; 

For the press writes our history while we are 
waiting. 

It gives not the lore of the old ancient sages. 
But it packs the whole world every day in eight 

pages. 
We may hastily scan it, and praise it or ban it. 
But the newspaper wrapper ties round the whole 

planet. 

Its folds all the islands, and continents are curled 



264 Whiffs fro?7i Wild Mcadoivs 

A small two-cent journal we wrap up the world 
in. 

'Tis a bundle worth trying, a package worth 
buying, 

If a planet rolls out when we've done our un- 
tying. 



Lines 265 



LWES 



[Read at the dedication of the Soldiers' Monument presented to 
the town of Candia, N.H., by Hon. Frederick Smyth, Oct. 13, 1S93.] 



The broken nation, torn in twain, 
Cried, in the torment of her piin, 
"Oh, bring me men who dare to die," — 
And thousands answered, "Here am I." 

" Come," cried the voice o'er hill and plain, 
Cried with the thunder trumpet's breath, 

" Who'll come to be cut down like grain. 
Upon the harvest-fields of death .? " 

The voice came from an ominous sky, 

And thousands answered, " Here am I ! " 

Then did the nation see arise 
The hero breed that never dies ; 

Then did the world behold again 

The strength of God that lives in men. 

No monument our hands can raise 
Can justly magnify their praise ; 



266 



WJiiffs from Wild Meadows 



There is no praise can glorify, 

No praise of tablet, tongue, or pen. 

The soul that does not fear to die, 
The man who dares to die for men. 

All praise is but an idle breath 

When whispered in the ear of death ; 




All eulogy an empty sound. 
The ripple of an idle wave. 

When uttered o'er the hallowed ground 
That marks a soldier's grave. 

Long since their lives have taken flight, 
Their souls passed on into the night. 



Lines 267 

The babes they left behind them then 
Have grown to matrons and to men ; 

And children play about their knees, 
And listen while the tale is taught 

Of years of mighty destinies, 

And how their fathers' fathers fought. 

And this, our monument, we raise, 

Shall tell their tale to coming days, 
And teach in the dark hours of need, 

Or when the threat'ning years draw nigh, 
Men of the same strong-hearted breed 

To still be unafraid to die. 
And while are hearts of equal worth, 

That love of land or glory stirs, 
Freedom shall dwell upon the earth 

Amid her loving worshippers ; 
And rule in sceptred peace afar. 
From rising sun to evening star, 
A land untrod by foot of slaves. 
But white with bloom on heroes' graves. 



268 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 



THE BIG FOUR AND THE LITTLE MAN 



[Read before the Brown University Club of Providence at 
Annual Midwinter Banquet, 1895.] 



There was a man — a mighty man — 

Who wrote a mighty grammar, 
To be beat into children's heads, 

And knocked in with a hammer. 
And if you wish for grammar lore. 

His book's the place to seek it ; 
It tells us how to speak our tongue 

The way we ought to speak it. 
A learned book filled up with rules, — 

With rules of all conceptions, — 
Ten thousand rules from all the schools, 

Ten million more exceptions. 

There was a man — a mighty man — 
Who had a mighty " projik " 

To write a great Compendium 
Of Universal Logic. 

He told us how to range our facts 
In proper collocation. 



The Big Foic?' aiid the Little Man 269 

To analyze and synthesize, 

And keep from obfuscation. 
By his advice the target truth, 

By hot shot could be shot full ; 
He told us how to think our thoughts, 

And make our thinking thoughtful. 

There was a man — a mighty man — 

A mighty rhetorician, 
Who made a rhetoric that ran 

Into the twelfth edition. 
He taught us not to write like clowns, 

Or any coarse clodhopper. 
But how to write with elegance 

Pre-eminently proper. 
He told us how to write our thoughts 

In true concatenation. 
And fix and rig 'em up in style. 

By rule and regulation. 

There was a man — a mighty man — 

Who made a contribution 
To wisdom's great totality — 

A work on elocution. 
He told us how to throw our arms 

To make our words emphatic. 
And told us how to twist our mouths. 

To make our speech dramatic ; 



270 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

He told us how to coo like doves, 

Or roar like any bison ; 
And told us how to throw our voice 

All over the horizon. 

There was a man — a little man — 

A very little fellow, 
Who used to stand upon the stand, 

Just stand right up and bellow. 
He mauled and murdered rhetoric. 

Threw logic in confusion, 
And broke all the commandments of 

The Book of Elocution. 
He filled the palpitating air 

With universal clamor, 
With cracked debris of rhetoric. 

And ragged shreds of grammar. 

One day the great grammarian. 

And the great rhetorician. 
And the great elocution man. 

Likewise the great logician, 
Went down to hear this little man, 

This very little fellow. 
To see him mount upon the stand, 

And then to hear him bellow. 
Loud sneered the great grammarian. 

Pooh-poohed the rhetorician. 



The Big Four and the Little Man 

The elocution man was shocked, 
And shocked the great logician. 

But while they sneered, these learned men, 

The ignorant congregation 
Showed its tumultuous delight 

In thunderous acclamation. 



271 




For, oh! this man — this little man — 

This very little fellow. 
Played on their fears and hopes at will 

A smile-or-tear-compeller. 
For though he was a little man. 

He was a mighty fellow, 
And played upon men's heartstrings as 

Upon a violoncello. 



272 Whiffs from Wild Meadows 

The people cried and clapped and wept, 

And soon the rhetorician, 
Grammarian, elocution man. 

Likewise the great logician, 
Were laughing just like common men, 

Or crying just like women, 
While through his sea of eloquence 

The little man was swimmin'. 
And loud haw-hawed and loud boo-hooed 

These deep and learned fellows — 
His hands were on their heartstrings, and 
He played his violoncellos ! 

Now grammar's good, and logic's good, 

And rhetoric's good and proper. 
And elocution's excellent 

To train the coarse clodhopper; 
But this my little fable shows, 

My little fable teaches, 
The man with genius in his soul 

All formulas o'er-reaches. 
He breaks the rules of scribes and schools, 

x\s fast as they can make 'em. 
And grammar men and logic men 

All go to hear him break 'em. 



U" 


'¥ 


X- 






v"" A 




o_ 










o' 








^O 




^5>v; 




N^' 


■^'H. 


%, 










.*" 








" " « "^-^ 







K: 



/ 



o 0' 



^^^ 



-^-"o: 



'.- ^ 



•^^. 



«5 "'* ' 






^x'', %. ^^^ ;#^^ r 









^X\, r/"^- \r,. 



.a' 






o 0' 






.,-> ^''^i- ,<■"■ .^'' ">, 



v>^- 



..*'.. ^^.^ 









^^' % ^ 'V ^ ^' -/ . .\ " 






'•V V. 






5^ '^^ ^ \. 



